Historical April 1991 article. Dates, prices, services and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
Last month I wrote about my clock collection. Avid reader(s) of this column— that’s you, mom!—will remember that I talked about having 100 + clocks, ranging from a Cinderella coach clock to a Pirate clock with desperados and cut-throats of all kinds peering over its face.
I believe in the equal time provision of the law, so its only fair that I spend this month’s column writing about my first wife’s shoe collection. Yep, shoes.
She collects all kinds of shoes, little ones and big ones, seasonal shoes and seasoned shoes, boots and booties.
I first knew this when we began dating, because there’s a shoe store not far from Ted Drewes on South Grand.
Each time we’d go to get a concrete, I’d stand in line and she’d go look at the shoes. “Window shopping,” she called it.
It could be worse, I figure, what if she collected diamonds, rock bands. or, gasp, husbands???
There are many differences between the first wife’s shoe collection and my clock collection. Aside from the fact that clocks are far more interesting and majestic, maybe the major difference between our collections is that while I’m quite proud of mine, the first wife is embarrassed by hers.
For some odd reason, she doesn’t want the world to know that she has over 200 pairs of shoes nesting in our home. Years ago she listed her name and phone number in one of those collector journals.
We still get calls from Indiana, Texas, and Vermont, people who found an ‘old magazine and want to call “the lady in St. Louis who collects shoes.” The wife, though, feigns ignorance and tells them they have the wrong number. Maybe she’s afraid that word of her trove will leak to Imelda Marcos!
A few years ago, in an ill-fated venture, she decided to categorize her shoes. At the time, I was organizing my clocks into electric vs. pendulum, and I think she must’ve been a bit inspired.
I can remember the grin on her face when she thrust a piece of paper in my face, “Here,” she said, “what do you think of these shoe categories?” I was, in a word, dumbfounded.
To me there were only two kinds of shoes, those that feel good and those that you have to wear to work.
The wife, though, had obviously given this a great deal of thought and had developed some pretty interesting categories.
I saved the list; during all of these years I’ve kept it by my ticket stub to the 1982 World Series, and will share a bit of it now.
Karleen’s Shoe Categories
tall heels (more than 4 inches)
medium heels (2 to 4 inches)
heels where you won’t fall (1 inch or less)
flats sandals
open-toe open-toed
strapped leather
suede canvas
shoes that look like they are alive
lace-ups velcro-hasp
ankle boot
knee boot
cockroach killers (with pointy toes)
those to wear with big bucks outfits
Rockport walking shoes
tennis shoes (but not for playing tennis)
tennis shoes (for watching tennis)
tennis shoes (for tennis)
racquetball shoes
walking-the-dog shoes (no offense to James Brown!) You may not be aware of this, but the famous St. Louis County Dog Museum— you’ve all been there, right?—was the second choice of the County Commissioners. Right, prior to choosing to go to the dogs, there had been many, many months of prolonged negotiations with the wife about a shoe museum. That’s right; we could’ve had the St. Louis County Shoe Museum!
Now wouldn’t that have had the tourists and conventioneers hoofing it from miles around??? Starting a museum is never easy, you know, it takes some time to get a critical mass together.
The Commissioners knew that they needed a massive collection as a starting point, so they naturally contacted the first wife.
I realize that you may think this is a bit far-fetched, but I ask you, is it any more far-fetched than McNary’s idea of building the RiverPort in a flood plain? Is it any loonier than spending millions to re-do the Admiral as a stationary entertainment center? Is it any goofier than the Dog Museum?
I rest my case. Anyway, the first lady thought the idea of a Shoe Museum was fantastic: She was excited about being the major contributor, but discussions broke down when they wouldn’t promise her that they would install the security and climate controls that she felt were necessary.
She said no, and someone with lots of collies said yes, and that’s why we have a Dog Museum.
On such small turns hinges fate!
To the wife, you see, they’re not just shoes, things one wears on the feets.
Each pair of shoes, in her opinion, has its own unique personality. They’re not just worn, they’re tended to, like a flock of sheep. Since she has far more shoes than even the Pointer Sisters and all of their aunts, nieces, grand-nieces, cousins, and women who live in zip codes ending in even-numbered digits could wear, she rotates her unworn shoes by bringing them down to the kitchen to sit on the window sill.
Each morning, a new pair of shoes joins us in the kitchen. You may think this is odd, but remember, we don’t cook, so it’s a kitchen in name only. Our stove has been disconnected for over a year now, and we do just fine with a microwave, toaster, and telephone, thank you.
It doesn’t get any better than this. Not only do we talk to our dogs, while the shoes are sitting in the kitchen, we try to include them in our breakfast or dinner conversation as much as possible.
As you might imagine, this isn’t easy: most shoes don’t have much personality.
The major exception to this are the used rattlesnake skin boots that she bought at the Gypsy Caravan a couple of years ago; you just know they’re nasty!
If you treat the shoes as sort of plain old “occupants,” however, the kinds of people you get stuck sitting next to on an airliner, it works reasonably well. “Say, Mr. and Mrs. Open-toed red suede,” I might say, “what do you think of this stadium controversy? Is that Virvus crazy or what?” The shoes, of course, don’t respond, which makes them an ideal companion. “That’s what I think too,” I next say.
Some days I even find myself preferring the shoes to the other people with whom I talk! At least the shoes aren’t always complaining about something.
The shoes are part of our—really, her— extended family.
All of the shoes have names.
Her orange sandles are Mr. and Mrs. Carrot, her blue dress pumps are Mr. and Mrs. Vinton, her black flats are Kevin and Kerry.
A couple of years ago, when the Cardinals were going good, we had shoes named Joaquin and Ozzie. Just the other night she bought a new pair of shoes and named them Norman and Colin. No, they’re not camouflaged.
As I write this, the first wife is upstairs, polishing her shoes and singing some songs to them.
She asks that you let her know if you have any shoes that you’d like to donate to THE SHOE COLLECTION! Look at it as another way to save a sole or two.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, April 1991.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1991_04.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 8.
