Parking in Chicago following the February 2011 blizzard.The inside of my vehicle is a disaster of major proportions. This is not in reference to some bizarre after market add-ons or manufacturer’s design whim. It is about my accumulated stuff. I often joke to wary-eyed friends, who have the misfortune to ride with me, that there is probably a family of Gypsies hidden away somewhere in the back to whom I offered a ride at some point in the past and they became lost in the mix.
Why the mess?
Remember, I am old, ugly, and live alone. Each day when I arrive home from wherever, I have several “bags” of whatever to carry up three floors to my condo. (It is a walkup building.)
I can only handle so much and in my waning years rue making the journey more than once. So, unless you are fortunate to have a spot in one of the many bags which make it upstairs, you wind up remaining in the vehicle.
Things begin to accumulate.
There are changes of clothes that we discarded over the past sailing seasons that never made it back into the closet of my home. There are coats abandoned after the surprise of a 70 degree day. There are books that were taken along in the hopes that there might be 30 or 40 minutes to read while waiting for my turn at whatever. And there is the influx of paper lovingly called the mail – most especially catalogs from Orvis and Land’s End. And yes, shoes. Often, a single shoe mysteriously separated from its mate by the circumstances of life.
The appearance of an odd shoe always brings to mind Louise Day.
To the residents of Tallapoosa County - that area of Central Alabama which is home to Alexander City and Dadeville and the Battle of Horseshoe Bend, Louise Day is a major celebrity. Mrs. Day is long gone from the scene, but is still remembered. She had a fifteen minute radio shoe, although it might have been longer, which aired each day in and around the noon hour. It was aptly called “Dayly (daily) Doings.”
The content of the program offered little insight on burning issues, unless there was a brush fire that had caught her eye on the drive to the radio station or a fire truck had forced her to pull aside. Her commentary was less biting. In her sincerity, however, there was a treasure trove. Her listeners were loyal and most generally amused by the “doing” that would occupy her interest on any given day.
One of the most amusing involved her finding a man’s dress shoe alongside Highway 280. It was not so dramatic as a pair of sneakers held together by their joined shoelaces and flung aloft over the power lines.
It was a single black shoe in relative good condition. It was obviously, to her, an unintended roadside deposit, since there was no mate about.
She was very worried that the shoe had fallen from an open window of a speeding car rushing to an important appointment - perhaps an interview, or a court appearance, or “heaven forbid, an important ceremony of life.” The physics of the situation escaped any logic. Perhaps the shoe had fallen out from an opened door when the car made a stop to check a noise from a tire. Did the owner of the shoe have a bad bunion and had removed it for some relief on a long trip? Was he headed to Florida for a wedding?
She reasoned that since it was a Florsheim brand, the owner might not have other pairs to rely upon as backup since that brand was “high end” for most pockets. If the owner was a country preacher she was certain the family budget was woefully strained. But, she reasoned that most country preachers were more Tom McAn than Florsheim.
The shoe had some wear, but still a lot of useful steps ahead.
Did a child toss the shoe from the car – bored from the trip and rummaging about unseen by the parents? Would they be able to question the child soon enough to discover along which mile the leather missile became airborne?
Her most reluctant scenario involved a shoe tossed out by an angry wife. No discussion centered on how the shoe was wrestled from the left foot by a woman sitting on the right – assuming that the husband (or lover) was seated in the passenger seat adjacent. In that day, there was never a mention of a same-sex coupling. That topic would be left for post- 2000 politics.
This was also a time before the cultural phenomena of “shoefiti” or shoe tossing. And poor Mrs. Day had no idea what a “crack house” was.
But what to do about the shoe?
Should the shoe be left undisturbed beside the road in the event the owner returned or should it be retrieved and a note left at the scene? Milo Ferguson’s prediction called for rain and you know what happens with leather and water.
People, you have to think these things through very carefully.
Mrs. Day opted to retrieve the shoe, but had the Secretary at the Flint Hill Methodist Church mimeograph some flyers which she left tacked to telephone posts and in the window of Gus Holly’s Standard Station. She reasoned that people who owned Florsheim shoes would stop there instead of the Save-a-Stop.
However, during the broadcast, she rethought that decision and would include the Save-a-Stop since they sold food items and people traveling sometimes opt to shop on the road instead of packing a cooler. Besides, some coolers leak. This would be very much the case if the owner had left on his journey at the last minute – not the leaking but the packing of the cooler. Perhaps the death of a relative would have prompted a coolerless venture.
So she planned to post one in the window there as well. I am sure you missed that segue in the broadcast. All in all, she printed 25 flyers.
FOUND, MAN’S BLACK FLORSHEIM SHOE, SIZE 11-D. CONTACT LOUISE DAY! Verify you are the owner by telling me the right or left. (Directions on how to contact the finder followed.)
I didn’t hear any follow-up broadcast related to a reunion of 11-D and the left foot to which it belonged. The next time I heard Mrs. Day, she was discussing a brilliant display of spirea vanhouttei that she had seen in Flora Robinson’s front yard. She reasoned that if Flora could ever conquer her crabgrass problem, she might win “Lawn of the Month” based upon the richness of her spirea and the large Japanese Magnolia which always caught her eye as she passed.
Chicago has had a brutal winter and I would love to see something blooming catch my eye, but that won’t happen for some time, despite Punxutawney Phil’s prediction. Then it will not be a glorious spirea but a crocus or a daffodil that had the courage to believe, much like the children watching Peter Pan. (Think Tinkerbell!)
Instead, to catch the eye we have a motley collection of chairs, boxes, and boards left beside the roadway to stake a claim on a shoveled parking space. This following the dumping of over 20 inches of snow during a recent blizzard.
Snow is a burden for man and beast here. The recent storm which had snow falling at multiple inches per hour and wind gusts of over 60 miles per hour forced 1,000 plus cars to be stuck on Lake Shore Drive. The accumulation also inundated on-street parking in every neighborhood in the city. Cars were burrowed much like a February groundhog.
People with shovels appeared to inaugurate Chicago’s most honorable time of the year.
It goes like this.
After a major snow, those who own a vehicle parked on the street take several hours and considerable energy to shovel it out so that it may be driven. Once a vehicle has been extricated, the person who removed the white stuff reserves the cleaned spot by placing some object to signify ownership of an otherwise public space. Cheap resin lawn chairs are the most popular, followed by plastic egg crates. TV trays are very popular. Telescoping tubular metal chairs are also a big hit. One guy, who obviously works in home repair, used a collection of empty white splackling buckets. I have seen several decent looking swivel desk chairs. I saw a set of upholstered dining chairs which gave me pause. I guess it is a matter of priorities and availability. I have seen two ironing boards – one standing upright and another inverted.
You can either have a place to park or you can have wrinkle-free pants, but not both.
Amazingly, a city known for its rough and tumble manners and aggressive drivers honors the “reserved parking” debris. Sadly, much of the debris remains unclaimed long after the snow has melted. Honor only goes so far.
As for a better option, I would think that a couple of stackable orange traffic cones would work and could be stored in the trunk of the vehicle – unless, of course, it is my trunk in which case you would have to remove the Gypsy family.
It has gotten me to thinking about the stuff left along the highway of life. Missed opportunities. Failed endeavors. Relationships.
And a black Florsheim shoe, man’s 11-D.
