The Art of a Shoemaker

As the sun began to disappear over the rolling hills and paint the pale blue sky with its deep shades of passion, a shoemaker turned his faded sign from OPEN to CLOSE. Although the shoppers had since abandoned the worn cobblestone road and returned home with their spoils, it would be long until the old man ascended the spiral staircase to his loft for the night. He turned off the glaring fluorescent lights above him, and lit several candles to begin his evening work.

He deeply enjoyed working by candlelight. When the frenetic energy of the daytime finally lengthened its pace into night, there was nothing like the delicate flames reaching their arms upward, fingertips of smoke lazily unfurling and enveloping the room in a dreamy haze. As the dwindling sun cast long, arching shadows on his shop, this is when the true work began.

He gazed at the list of orders for the week, and started on Mr. Ainsley’s wingtip Oxfords. While his store was never the most frequented in the square, he had a respectable amount of loyal customers he delighted in seeing over the years. Mr. Ainsley was one of his first, and the old shoemaker remembers his first order with clarity and pride.

It was a pleasant, spring afternoon, April 1951. The shoemaker, satisfied with a successful first week of opening, prepared to move his glossy sign from OPEN to CLOSE. As he went to close up for the evening and begin on a fresh batch of orders, a steadfast shoe had wedged his way between the door. A mud-soaked, scuffed, and well-loved wingtip Oxford. He traced his gaze from the shoe to its owner: a pale-faced, red-cheeked, breathless boy with wild eyes of desperation and determination. 

The shoemaker peered out tentatively. “Can I help you?” he inquired, the politeness in his voice fading slightly with morbid curiosity.

“Yes,” the boy replied, huffing. “I think I’m in love.”

At this, the man suppressed a smile. “If you are afflicted with such a thing, the chapel is down the road.”

“No, well, you see I--oh, right. May I come in?” The boy asked, as if suddenly grounding himself in reality. He spoke with an eager rapidity, as if the words were crowding at the base of his mouth to push themselves out into the open.

“Well, I suppose,” said the shoemaker, his interest getting the best of him.

The shoemaker held the door open with a flourish, and the boy stepped inside. He ran his fingers through his hair and dusted off his dirt-stained shirt, attempting to smooth himself out and peering around curiously all the while. From his muddy shoes to his untucked shirt to his windswept hair, it seemed to the cobbler as though his entire being was askew. He took a deep breath, as if preparing to give his the most important speech of his life, and began.

“Well, you see, I was on my way to the diner for my nightly shift. I was on my bike like I always am, rounding the corner by Elm and Wentworth, when all of a sudden this girl crosses in front of me. I slammed on the brakes, kicking up this massive puddle--I almost tumbled in the mud myself--and she throws up her hands and gives a good ol’ scream. Honest, I’m sure half the people on the sidewalk thought I was mugging her or something. But Mister,--I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Michael.”

“Michael--I’m James, by the way. James Ainsley.” He held out a dusty hand, and the shoemaker shook it not without an air of discomfort. He patted his hand on his trousers.

“Michael, you had to have seen her. She had this breezy, blue plaid dress on, real cute. And her hair. I’m no barber or nothing, but it was real shiny like, and she had this cute little bounce to it and this big old yellow bow right smack on the top of her head. Honest, if I wasn’t already gearing up to hit her with my bike, I would’ve slammed on the brakes and fallen clean off just to look at her.” He propped an elbow on the counter and heaved a deep, dreamlike sigh. He glowed with that radiance of youth, as if he was at a slightly different altitude than everybody else.

Michael shifted his weight slightly and politely cleared his throat.

“Oh! Right. This girl was beet red in the face, just real royally mad, and cried out, ‘Jeez, mister! You could’ve knocked me out!’ And Michael, I can’t tell you why, I just started laughing my head off. That made her madder, but then she couldn’t help but crack a smile too. We had this big old laugh, right in the middle of the street, ribs aching, all covered in mud and dust. Once we caught our breaths again, I mustered up the courage to ask her name. Penelope, she said. Penny for short, and I thought that was real cute. So I told her--after she stopped giggling, of course--I told her: ‘Penny, maybe we could try this whole meeting each other thing again. How’s about a movie?’ And--get this--she said ‘A movie sounds nice.’ Can you believe that, Michael? A guy like me--well, anyway. I went to go hop off my bike, give her a hand or something, and just then I landed right in this huge pile of mud. It got everywhere! Splashed up on my shirt, made puddles in my shoes...Well, gee, I couldn’t go out with her like that. Imagine a girl like her, real classy type, out with me, all rolled around in mud, looking like a barn animal. That sent her off in a whole ‘nother giggling fit, and once she gathered herself--again--, I said I would pick her up for breakfast instead. She said that was fine, and now...here I am. Covered in mud, probably getting fired by my boss in the morning, hopelessly in love, and in desperate need of a new pair of shoes.”

He looked down at the floor, with the guilt of a child caught in the act of mischief, and said, “Can you help me?” 

Michael couldn’t help but take pity on the boy. He shone with the innocence of boyhood, his aspirations and dreams securely fastened in his heart and still seemingly in his grasp. While Michael himself never really cared much for love, James had this infectious radiance about him that would make even the iciest of individuals glow with warmth.

“Of course.” James beamed.

“However, my good man, we do not sell clothing here. I’m not sure if I could completely help you with your…” Michael glanced at the muddy ensemble with sympathy and a touch of humor. “..situation.”

James shrugged at this notion. “My mother always says, ‘The most important thing about a man’s outfit is his shoes. He can have a fancy suit and tie, of course--that won’t hurt him none--but if he’s got a shiny pair of shoes on, you can tell he really cares about his appearance. After all, shoes are the key witnesses of a man’s whole life.’ Whatever that means.”

Michael paused at this, pondering its significance with a small smile. He then grabbed his notepad, removed the pencil from above his ear, and set to work. “So, Mr. James Ainsley, what is your size?”

“10 1/2, since I was twelve.”

“Now, what type of shoe are you in the market for? The saddle shoes have been especially popular lately, as well as--”

“Wingtip Oxfords. That’s all I need, sir,” James said with unwavering resolution.

Michael hesitated. “Are you sure? It’s a fine shoe, but that’s a bit of an older style. Wouldn’t you prefer to perhaps try something new?”

At this the boy’s whirlwind of words slowed down a bit. He gazed down at the near-ruined dress shoes with something like reverence. “Yes, I’m sure. These were my father’s shoes. He said there was never a better shoe. Sturdy, reliable. He always kept them spotless.” The boy chuckled, as if he was remembering a memory long forgotten. “Old James Sr. was obsessed with them, really. He even took a pair with him to Normandy.” He looked out the window at a passing flower cart. “Was buried in them too.”

The two young men looked at the wingtip Oxfords in silence. Michael met the boy’s gaze, then smiled. “I have just the pair.”

The spring of April 1951 has long since faded from view, the seasons rotating in their perpetual wheels and turning into the autumns of adulthood. Mr. and Mrs. Ainsley have been married almost thirty years now, and year after year the same bright-eyed boy orders his latest pair of wingtip Oxfords.

The cobbler laced up Mr. Ainsley’s latest pair and extinguished the dwindling candle flames with a pinch of his deeply lined fingers. As he ascended the spindly stairs to his bedroom, the cobbler remembered each of his customers fondly. Every shoe carries a life story, an entire world encapsulated in light blue tissue paper and a cardboard box. After all, a pair of shoes is a key witness to a man’s entire life. As the years passed him by, and less and less youthful springs made their appearances, more customers preferred the work of machines to that of an inconsequential old man. Only a select few ever take a trip down to the cobbler’s shop to mend their old walking companions anymore, and most people these days prefer to abandon their well-worn footgear for the new and improved models. Over time, shoes had lost their meaning for most.

But there is something to be said about the art of a shoemaker. Of course, any store can manufacture a shoe at every whim of the consumers, deftly and robotically. These stores can replicate, produce, sell, succeed; but they cannot create. In this little cobbler shop, on the corner of Elm and Salisbury, every shoelace, every square of fabric, every stitch is handmade; created by the work of a man who works at candlelight, who knows each customer by name, and who believes in the power of muddy footprints and wingtip Oxfords.