My New Shoes

When I was a kid, it didn't take much for my Mom to convince me that spending an afternoon shopping was a good idea. Truly, I've always loved to shop. It didn't matter to me if we were going for a quick ten minute perusal of the hardware store, or if we were going to spend all day bouncing from shopping mall to outlet store---Mom said, "Let's go shopping!" and I said, "I'm in!"

But the two words she could utter to really get my 7-year-old inner shopper excited?

"New Shoes."

Oh yeah. Especially if they were dress shoes.

Mom, actually, wasn't usually too thrilled when I needed dress shoes for some special occasion. Not because she didn't like to shop. But because I had a very specific test for whether a particular pair of shoes was going to work for me or not. And that often involved doubling our time at a store.

You see, it didn't matter to me if the shoes were comfortable. It didn't matter what color they were, or what style. It didn't even matter to me if they had snaps, straps, or laces.

All I REALLY cared about was how they sounded when I walked on a hardwood floor.

Luckily, most of the shoe stores we frequented back in the late 80s came equipped with a handy-dandy little section of linoleum near the front door. Mom would strap me into my shiny new patent leather mary janes, and before she could complete the "where's your toe?" test, I was beating feet up to the linoleum to check out the "clippy cloppy" factor of my new kicks.

Anything that made a sound other than "clippy cloppy" immediately got sent to the rejection pile, much to my mother's chagrin.

I don't think I've ever tried to explain what it is that I love so much about shoes that make that sound. I think, when I was a kid, it was because they made me feel grown up. Important. Like the kids in my class would hear me coming, just like Miss Green in her fancy black pumps.

There may have been some fascination with noisy shoes from the time I was 4, and strapped on my very first pair of tap shoes.

In truth, "clippy cloppy" shoes made me feel glamorous. Like a tiny version of Miss USA, except with even bigger hair, and a hot pink dress. Because hot pink was my favorite color from age 7 to 10. And we all remember how big hair was in the 80s.

Fast forward to my adult years, and the sound a shoe makes on hardwood rarely comes into play when choosing new shoes. In college, it was about fashion. Now, it's about comfort (and some semblance of style.) 

But a few days ago, I spotted a pair of boots that I knew just had to be mine. Sure, they had a slight heel--something I usually avoid at all costs--but everything about them....from the sleek design to the silver side buckle...made me dream of making them mine. Eagerly, I slid them onto my feet and admired them in the tiny little foot mirror. As I started walking around in the carpeted store, I had a flashback to the many times I tapped my way through the shoe stores in my childhood. Noticing a bit of hardwood near the entrance, I grabbed my purse and sneaked over, tapping my toe tentatively on the hard surface. And when the "clippy cloppy" sound reverberated back to my ears, I knew I'd found the perfect pair of boots for me.

Yes, I bought them. Yes, I giggle like a school girl every time I wear them.

Video Proof:


What can I say? These boots have the capability of making me feel like a fashionable, slightly-fancy, grown-up version of the kid I used to be, in all their "clippy cloppy" glory. I say every girl needs a pair of shoes that can do that, am I right?

This post is dedicated to Mom, for all her patience and infinite wisdom when it came to shopping for shoes.

My Girl

My mother stood, framed in the doorway of my bedroom, late afternoon sun streaming in behind her. "It doesn't have to be a long nap, now," she said, "but you need to get a little rest before tonight." The door closed quietly behind her, and I was left alone in my pink-and-white bedroom.

I was seven years old. I didn't take naps any more. But the promise of a new, exciting experience lingered on the horizon. So I scootched down beneath the covers and tried my best to go to sleep.

Yellows and oranges danced on the inside of my eyelids. My toes twitched. Sleep was elusive. Nancy, my best friend and favorite dollie in the world, wanted to hear about the fun I'd had today while I was away from her. I whispered in her ear about the train ride, and the water balloon fight, and the hot dogs, and the parade. I told her all the names of my 1st grade class that I'd seen throughout the day: Larry and Crystal and Robbie and Tasha and even Miss Green. And as I talked her through our afternoon picnic with Nanny and Pawpaw, I drifted off to sleep.

Adam and I enjoying the Labor Day festival.

When Daddy woke me up, the street light burned outside my window. "C'mon, sleepy head. You're gonna miss the street dance."

I sat up, covers falling into my lap, and wiped the sleep from my eyes. Daddy tugged on my crooked pigtail and said, "Let's go let Mom fix that crazy hair-do before leave, ok?"

I took the stairs as quickly as I could, holding onto the wooden stair rail for purchase. Mom sat in the living room, the evening news on the television. My Baby Brother snoozed in  his bouncy chair just at her feet. "C'mere, munchkin. Let's fix that ponytail," she said softly. I sat at her feet, and tried not to wince as she pulled the brush through my hair, untangling the mess I'd made while napping.

Pigtails secured, she said, "Hop up." I did, and she tucked my shirt into the waist of my shorts. "Your shoes are in the den. Hurry, now. Daddy's ready to go."

Excitement coursed through my body. I was going to the Labor Day Street Dance with my Daddy. I was a big girl, now. There would be grown-ups there, and funnel cakes, and loud music, and fireworks. I tugged my sneakers on, lacing them up haphazardly, and sprinted for the front door.

Daddy kissed Mom on the cheek. "Save a dance for me," she said. And she winked.

The end-of-summer heat receded, leaving the evening balmy but comfortable. Lightning bugs lit out path to the sidewalk, and Daddy took my hand. We walked the few blocks to the party, waving at neighbors watering their azaleas, eventually joining a small clan of folks headed to the party. The air smelled of grilling meat, smoke, and fried food. We stopped to cross the street at the barber shop on the corner, and Daddy pointed across the street. My seven-year-old self quivered in delight.

The blacktop of the A&P parking lot was covered in lawn chairs. Six or seven vendors sold cotton candy, balloons and noisemakers, hot dogs. A large stage had been constructed at one side of the lot, lights flashing and horns blaring as the band warmed up. Children raced each other and squealed and shouted. A train at the historic station nearby blew her horn--two short bleets. The Labor Day Block Party was in full swing, and I was itching to jump right in the middle of all the fun. I looked up at Daddy with a huge smile on my face. "Can we go dance now?" I asked. 

"You bet, chiquita," he said. "But let's find Nanny and Pawpaw first, ok?"

We waded into the teeming crowd, my hand gripped tightly in his, and made our way to the front of the stage. There, my grandparents had scouted out a perfect spot and set up a half-dozen lawn chairs for the family members that would meet us there. I gave Nanny a big hug, and Pawpaw planted a whiskery kiss on my forehead. "Gayle will meet us here in a little while," Daddy told them. "Adam was still sleeping when we left." 

Daddy fished his wallet out of his pocket, took out a dollar, and said, "Here, baby. Go buy yourself one of those pink glowy necklaces." My feet slapped the blacktop as I ran to the nearest vendor. Several minutes later, I had in my possession the prettiest glow-in-the-dark halo. I settled it onto my head, pigtails holding it in place, and skipped back to my family. As I approached them, a loud sound of feedback happened on the stage. It startled me, and I jumped into Daddy's lap. "Don't worry," he said. "That's just the microphones. The band is getting ready to come on! Are you excited?"

I nodded my head, my new halo sliding atop my head,  but I stayed firmly on his lap.

A man came out on the stage and welcomed everyone to the annual block party. People yelled and clapped and hooted. And then the band came on stage. There were 5 or 6 men, all wearing goofy red Hawaiian shirts. I looked up at Daddy and giggled. The one guy at the front took the microphone in hand and talked for a few minutes.

And then the music started.

People abandoned their lawn chairs and hurried to the front of the stage, creating a makeshift dance floor. And boy, did they start to boogie. Dad tapped his foot along to the music, jiggling me in his lap, breaking the tension from moments before. He pointed at the old guy from the barber shop, who was wiggling his butt back and forth, and I giggled. Then I pointed out the couple doing intricate turns and dips. He nodded and said he'd teach me how.

The song changed, and Nanny and Paw got up and headed for the dance floor. Daddy looked at me and said, "Wanna go dance, Abby?" I nodded, and out we went.

He led me out into the sea of dancers. "Step up on my feet and I'll show you the steps," Daddy said, and offered me his hands to guide me. And so I did. He rocked back and forth, testing my weight, making sure I had my balance. And then he smiled his big Daddy smile and said, "Ok, here we go!"

I stayed focused on his feet, memorizing the steps. One two three, one two three, rock step. One two three, one two three, rock step. After a few minutes, I looked up at him, grinning. "Think you've got it?" he shouted over the music. I nodded and he lifted me off of his feet, spinning one, two, three times in the air. I was still laughing, big belly laughs, when he sat me back down on the pavement.

A younger me, with Daddy.

The song changed again, this time to one I recognized. Daddy grinned wide and said, "Ok Lil' Miss Dancer, let's see what you've got." He took my hands, counted down to a slower beat than the music, and walked me through the basic steps. The lead singer crooned about sunshine on a cloudy day, and Daddy counted: "One two three, one two three, rock back. One two three...that's ok, rock step. Other foot! One two three, rock step. Look at you!! You're shaggin', girl!"

As I kept up to the tune on my own, Daddy joined the band, singing to me about bees and honey, and how I was his girl. And we danced.

When the song came to an end, he twirled me around again. Friends and family standing around clapped for us. I noticed Mom sitting in our lawn chairs, a big smile on her face, My Baby Brother bouncing on her knee. Dad ruffled my bangs and said, "You're one terrific dancer, kiddo." And my heart opened wide.

Later that night, as I sat in my Daddy's lap watching the fireworks explode in the night sky, I would breathe in his smell of Old Spice and Irish Spring. I would hum the melody of that song again. I would learn one day that it was called "My Girl," and it had been sung by a band called The Temptations. It would eventually become the song I associated with my Daddy, the song we would dance to at my wedding. But for that one night, the summer of 1987, it was just the song playing in the background of a magical childhood memory. 

Dancing to "My Girl," seventeen Septembers later.

I'm hanging out over at The Speakeasy. Drop by to read some  awesome posts by some awesome writers!

I'm Innocent, I Tell You

For the most part, I was always pretty happy to be a sibling. It was awesome being 6 years older than my brother--wise enough and creative enough to think of new ways to torture him, but still young enough to appreciate having a younger sibling to carry around. (Read: dress up like a life-sized Barbie doll.)


Most afternoons, when I would get home from school, Adam would be patiently waiting for me, ready for after school fun to ensue. Most afternoons, I welcomed that play-time with open arms. 


Except for one infamous afternoon in particular.


It's the Halloween that will go down in infamy.


I'd had a particularly rotten day at school, despite having donned my festive "Happy Halloween" sweatshirt with over-sized acrylic scarecrow pin.  All I wanted to do was change into my play clothes and soothe my 4th grade heart with a little New Kids on the Block  dance party therapy.

I made it up to my room, turned on my tape deck, and was immediately soothed by Jordan Knight's voice. Just as I whipped my sweatshirt over my head, I could hear the distinct sound of 3-year-old feet pounding up the stairs. With no time to turn my sweatshirt outside-in, and less than no time to finish changing, I did the only logical thing. 


I froze.


Thus, my brother found me standing in my room, wearing nothing but my acid-wash pleated jeans and my white turtleneck dickie.

This left me less than pleased. Hence the Angry Birds eyebrows.

The next five minutes went something like this:


Adam: Sissy, wanna play?
Abby: I do, Bubby, but I'm trying to change, ok?
Adam: I wanna play wif this ball, ok Sissy?
Abby: Ok, but I'd like to finish changing clothes first.
Adam: Let's play wif this ball, Sissy. Catch! (*ball smacks Abby in the face)
Abby: Bubby! Don't! I want to change clothes! Go wait for me downstairs!
Adam: No! Want to play NOW. Play NOW Sissy!!!!!
Abby: ARRRRRAGHHH!


Let the record show that I did, in fact, ask him NICELY to leave my room.


Also, let the record show that I attempted to keep my cool in the beginning.


But a 9 year-old in New Kids withdrawal only has SO much patience people.

I lost my cool.


I JUST wanted to change. I JUST wanted dance around my room to "Cover Girl." I JUST wanted to be alone for FIVE MINUTES.


And when Adam wouldn't leave, no matter how many times I yelled at asked him, I took matters into my own hands. 

I hit him with my orange Halloween sweatshirt.


He stood there, momentarily stunned, tears welling in his big blue eyes. And I immediately felt terrible. But before I could get the words "I'm sorry, Bubby," out of my mouth, he squinched his eyes closed, opened his mouth, and went into the "silent wail" cry that kids do only in the worst of circumstances.


Oh. Crap.


He pivoted on his chubby legs and sprinted for the door.


That's when I saw the bleeding hole in the back of his head.


It's also when I remembered the heavy acrylic scarecrow pin, still attached to my orange Halloween sweatshirt.

My festive sweater was now a murder weapon.


In a matter of nano-seconds, my heart sunk, my palms went sweaty, my mouth went dry, and I began mentally packing a bag. (New Kids tapes, a change of underwear, a tooth brush, my Sony tape player, and my favorite doll, Nancy. I wanted to take my New Kids dolls, too, but there just wasn't enough room in my make-shift bandana knapsack.)


I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that my mother was going to kick me out. Ship me to the gypsies. Throw me out with only a map to the nearest circus.


I was a GONER.


I could hear Adam wailing as he made his way down stairs. I heard my mother meet him at the bottom of the steps.


And I knew the only course of action was to throw myself on the mercy of the court.

I ditched the murder weapon and rushed downstairs, my white turtleneck dickie flapping in the wind.


To this day, Adam thinks I hit him with the scarecrow pin on purpose.


But I swear to you, on the sanctity of this blog, that I never, EVER intended to make him bleed.


I swear.


PS: Is it creepy that I still have the pin?