The Shoemaker

I was allowed to run one errand alone when I was younger. The Shoe Repair shop was sandwiched in between the Dime Store and the Post Office. Down the long cement driveway, narrow and long alongside the outer wall of the Post Office, was the Shoe man. I couldn't tell if he was Hungarian, German or both.

He definitely had a strong European accent. I remember faintly that his name was Mr. Wendelin.

The small small-talk was grand. We exchanged at most a few sentences, and I rattled off what needed to be done for our family's shoes. If it was a purse or a belt, Mr. Wendelin could repair it. He was the expert.

He worked methodically, and his art made it look so easy and simple. Somehow I knew that his job wasn't as easy as it looked.

I saw all the shoes he had already repaired, like soldiers all in a row ready for battle. I imagined all the miles and miles of walking, running and skipping that all those shoes combined must have taken — the shoes, boots, sandals and loafers worn down to thin heels. All the miles combined would stretch many times to Italy and back again to Cleveland, Ohio.

The master at his craft always gave our repaired item back to me shiny and sparkling and almost brand new. I hurriedly took the repaired shoes home.

The shoe repair man, Mr. Wendelin, always knew what needed to be done. He never hesitated and never said, "No, I cannot repair this pair of shoes." We were happy and grateful to save money once again, and had happy feet, because our feet enjoyed the comfort of a worn-in shoe.

"If the shoe fits, wear it," as the saying goes, is more than just the right size. The familiarity of the shoes around our growing feet was better than new shoes that had to be worn in and oftentimes caused blisters, redness and unfamiliarity for our toes and ankles.

Somehow the shoemaker knew just what needed to be done to keep our old pairs of shoes running in good repair. God bless the souls of this long-forgotten craft!