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My Dubie's Shoes by Monte Greenway Bay St. Louis MS I didn’t say Mama or Daddy and the other words that toddlers usually say when they begin to speak. Even with my mother’s coaxing, I said nothing until one morning I crawled under my grandmother’s bed, picked up her shoes, hugged them, and said “My Dubie’s Shoes.” Those words were a source of pride to her all of her life. She told the story to everyone, including my children. Dubie’s shoes were always scuffed and worn. If she got a corn on her toe, she would just cut a hole in her shoe with a razor blade and go on about her business, like no one would notice a big toe sticking through a hole in a black shoe and she didn’t really care if they did. If her shoes got really worn and stretched, she would stand in the bathtub with a little water in it or better yet, a mud puddle and wear the shoes until they dried. She said they fit just like new. My grandfather worked for the newspaper so it wasn’t like she couldn’t afford new shoes, she just hated new shoes. My mother would sometimes force her to buy a new pair by threatening not to be seen in public with her. One afternoon our neighbor knocked on the door to report that Miss Dubie had been seen in his garden (again). Daddy questioned her about it, but of course she denied it. “I haven’t been anywhere near that old fool’s garden, I’ve been sewing all day.” she said, without looking up from the sewing machine. The neighbor asked Daddy to come with him, that he wanted to show him something. It had rained the day before and was a little muddy as they made their way around to Mr. Thompson’s garden. There, buried about four or five inches in the mud were Dubie’s shoes. Her feet had stuck in the mud, so she just stepped out of them, planning to come back for them later. (probably because she had her hands full.) Back to the house Daddy came, carrying the muddy shoes, madder than ever. He confronted her again. She just looked at the shoes, then went back to her sewing and said “Shit On It.” That was Dubie’s answer to everything when she was at a loss for words. I followed behind those worn out shoes throughout my childhood whether it was fishing, blackberry picking or just visiting. Sometimes it got me in a predicament, but most of the time it was a grand adventure. Some forty odd years later, shortly after Dubie’s death, I received a package from my mother. I opened it to find my grandmother’s old shoes. I picked them up and hugged them to my heart once again, tears streaming down my face. Also in the box was a small oval shaped plaque, framed in gold with the cross stitched words, MY DUBIE'S SHOES. |