The shoes arrived by post shortly after two o'clock. I remember distinctly because Pop's favourite show, The Young and the Restless (or the rest of us as he was fond of quipping), had just ended. He was cutting raisin molasses bread into slices that were too thick in my estimation. Before I could help him my grandmother breezed into the kitchen, her steps light and quick. "Ken, what are you doing? Sure you're hacking up that loaf!" she scolded, her Scottish accent thought softened over the years, was still distinctive.
The sound of her rich voice brought me a sense of serenity and comfort long before I could begin to imagine what it meant to miss it. Today it is her voice that I could conjure up more clearly than any image of her in my mind. If I had a mind to, which I don't, because it still hurts too much.
"Jesus Mauri!" he roared back at her, "I'm just cutting little Jani's bread. That bakery makes bread too soft when it's fresh." "All fresh bread is soft. That's what fresh bread is supposed to be" she retorted haughtily. "Well, you can't cut through this bread because you're after ruining my good bread knife cutting up God knows what!" he thundered now. I winced at the " Mauri" as he'd called her that for the 67 years they'd been married although he knew perfectly well that her name was "Mairi". As far as I was concerned, he was massacring a strong and lovely Scottish name. Besides, he'd placed the Jesus in front of it so often my own children thought that "Jesusmary" was her rightful name.
As they bantered back and forth, I moved in to save the battered looking bread. Poppy always made sure he had a loaf ready for me whenever I visited chapel Arm. He would serve it to me and to Nan with a cup of steaming hot tea while we watched his favourite soap when I was a little girl, too young to watch that stuff on TV. Twenty years later, he was still watching Victor Newman, while dipping tiny pieces of my favourite treat into lukewarm tea and feeding it to my baby girl. "Poppy!" I'd admonish him, but weakly, as Kate was my third baby, and I'd given up hope of changing his mind or his ways. "That's all you ate" he'd insist, "And it didn't hurt you any. Sure, that's why you like it today." I'd put up with the gassy baby later, I decided, because it was worth the joy it gave them both in the moment. "Diddly, diddly, diddly, doo, doodly, doodly, diddly, do" he sang to her as he bounced he on his bony knee. Poppy loved babies, but only when they grew enough to have control of their tiny necks and mouths so that he could alternately bounce and feed them. Babies, of course, loved him right back.
The doorbell snapped me to attention, as it was a novelty in Chapel Arm to hear a doorbell. Most people just walked right in and chances are, you'd be related to them in some way or another. The doorbell signalled a real guest or some kind of action like a car broken down. I looked to the door with anticipation. "Jesus Mauri, it's a parcel. We got a parcel. It must be a mistake. You'd better hurry up, Mauri, " he said as though he expected the postman to disappear into thin air at any moment. When she didn't rise quickly enough from her chair, he hobbled to the door himself, his gait unsteady and hard for me to watch. "It's a parcel from Sears Canada", he announced. "Well, Jesus Mauri, what in the name of God are you after ordering now?" "Nothing", she snapped, "Don't concern yourself." With that, Poppy slid the knife he was still holding gently through the packing tape, opening the small package. I looked up with mild curiosity as he held up the stylish brown suede pumps in the air. "By the Lord Jesus, I can't believe you're after buying another pair of shoes. And they're twenty nine- ninety nine!" "Plus tax", he added for extra emphasis. "Well, so what?" Nanny retorted, defiance blazing in her aquamarine eyes. "So the doctor said you only got three months left, so you won't have a chance to wear 'em out. It's a waste of good shoes!" he declared more to himself than to us. Ì`m still walking around so I still have a use for shoes, Nanny fought back, and if I don`t wear them out, then Jan can have them. She always loved my shoes`.
As they argued in the circular and comical manner that was characteristic of their 67-year relationship, my mind drifted to Nan’s shoe closet.....
A huge deep porch with a door off the back. It was supposed to be a pantry but Nan had more use for shoes than canned goods so it became a room of her own. For her shoes. All sorts of them in size 6. There were 2 inch black stilettos because Nan was 5`nothing without them. Fashion first, comfort second, she`d laugh when she put them on. Red, shiny pumps she rocked with a fiery dress that didn`t look like something a grandmother would wear. sling backs in every hue, clogs that she wore in summertime when she went to the cottage. Sandals that slid on my feet with rhinestones that I thought were diamonds. Highland dancing shoes all the way from Scotland , artifacts from a life she refused to discuss. High, black leather boots that Poppy said she`d barely had time to take off at the hospital before my father was born one winter night in 1951. He walked the streets while he waited in his own faded and worn work boots. They didn`t make it into Nan`s closet. The flip flops were my favourites. Or maybe the dainty pumps she had dyed to match her clothes. She`d always had them forever. They were never new no matter what my Poppy said. Of course she needed them. A lady does not wear blue shoes with a green dress. No sneakers. She wasn`t that kind of woman. Brown leather boots she wore with her fur coat and hat. Politically incorrect. Soft and chic. My grandmother and her shoes. I knew I`d never wear them except playing in her closet. Just too hard to fill.
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