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How Beautiful with Shoes or Without

In my past, I spent hours in the shoe store, not because it’s my absolute thing to do, but because when going on long walks, I wear bulky orthotics in my shoes, and have to make sure all will fit properly. It takes time and makes me jealous of ladies who can wear tiny ballet slippers that give one’s foot absolutely no support…or torturous heels that attempt to reshape the foot during the hours one wears them. I guess there were years when I squandered my chances to be like those ladies.

In the seventh grade, the cusp of life when girls want to shed bulky clothing, shy ways and morph into the first stage of womanhood, I was having foot problems. The lost-in-the-old-ways doc that my mother took me to, not only removed a growth on the bottom of my foot using a very painful process, he also ordered my mother to put me in oxfords. For the younger crowd, these are shoes like men might wear, or women who care nothing about fashion. They are leather with stiff soles and ties, and are usually black or brown. I must have still been under the influence of the painkillers my mother gave me after the doc shot the bottom of my foot with some form of acid, because I agreed to a pair of cherry red oxfords. And I subsequently wore these shoes to school, in the seventh grade!

That’s why Jack D. came up to me at our years later reunion, and told me that he’d had a crush on me in junior high, but he just could not get beyond those red shoes.  Damn! Even he remembered them. I don’t know what shoes I was wearing that night, but I can assure you they weren’t oxfords. I moved from those red shoes to saddle shoes, and then quietly relied on my mother’s busy life to blot out the doctor’s warning that I had weak arches or something!! I can still remember the elegantly thin loafers I wore in high school with my white crew socks folded way down to reveal my ankles.

Ah yes, I had years of wonderful carefree shoes—woven flats in various colors, dyed poisdeseau for every prom dress or dance ensemble, also sandals that revealed lots of skin, and heels that were chunky or spindly depending on the style of the season.

But most of all, years and years of walking around barefoot. I always cleaned my house in my bare feet, even in winter. I don’t really know why—I guess I thought I moved faster.

But those years caught up with me. Chronic foot pain led to the discovery of a stretched tendon. Surgery was mentioned, but the orthotics I had to wear protected that tendon. And foot surgery is always an ify choice.

Now I often wear gym shoes. But I still cheat and wear little shoes for holidays and evenings out with friends…though trips to the shoe store will never be the same.

Bottom line, I can still throw on a pair of athletic shoes and walk for miles. No complaints. I just wonder if I would have stuck with more-supportive shoes my entire life—maybe if those oxfords hadn’t been RED! How beautiful a thought.

MEMORIES OF Bill Pfordresher

THIS POST, part of a longer work, honors my brother Bill, who died on January 6th. We were a family of 4, my mother and her three children, our father dying at 45 when Bill was only three months old.

But we were blessed with an amazing mother, (SHE in the text) and thus, we thrived.  

 John, Beth and Bill. Three years between each of us. But when a salesman or an older woman selling potholders comes to our door, She won’t by, has an excuse, tells them she is “just a widow with three kids.”

But every night at the dinner table, as the years stretch on, there is laughter or we argue about who will wash the dishes, or we watch Bill try to tell a joke, then fall on the floor laughing and rolling around. Then much later, we will sink into bed, sleep coming quickly, because we are safe, have no fears. At least the three of us feel that way. We don’t think to ask how it is for Her.

But if the nature of a complete family is the presence of that taller male figure with the deep voice, Bill, for a long time, has no framework for such a concept, and instead he has fears.

Bill is afraid of the egg man, the milkman. He hangs on his mother’s skirts when they come to the back door. He also needs the security of his baby bottle for so long, that he is able to open the refrigerator door and take one out. But don’t chastise Her for this. Such decisions are called survival, they being nature’s way, as time passes and Bill grows. Then She buys him a trike with a rubber cowboy saddle over the seat. I like his saddle, I don’t have one. Bill is beginning to see the wider world, make friends in the neighborhood. He is also beginning to ask questions: “Would my daddy fix my bike? Would he come home every night?” She never ignores these questions…answers them truthfully.  

At the age of three, then four, Bill is thin, pale so that some neighbors make comments: poor Jinni, she must be struggling, not feeding him enough. Oh, She feeds him! We never lack for anything! Genetically, Bill is thin—but loved, so loved by all of us. 

Bill and I are buddies, but being 3 years older, sometimes I take over. I tease him or John and I gang up on him. Bill is thin, and so blonde and fair that he’s like a shaft of sunlight. And for a while, he has a spate of bloody noses, his nasal membranes sensitive to dry air. This problems is discussed at the dinner table, anyone’s health being common knowledge in our family. But then a mean rhyme appears, one that slips off the tongue—alliterates well: boney, bloody, blue-nosed, bow-legged, bats-in-the-belfry, Boston baked bean Billy. And yes, Bill cries when we chant it. So, we keep it up. We have kid-power over this beautiful child who we all love. But when She walks into the room, tell us to “Cut it out” we do. 

As I grow, so does Bill, and “boys” come into the yard, Bill’s friends, some older boys. They play baseball till there’s no grass near our apple tree. But I am on my swing, so I ignore them, swinging and singing, watching the sky as I float back and forth, back and forth, my head held straight along my body, an arrow hurtling upwards.

But one day when I look down, the Darche boys are fighting in the yard. They roll in the dirt, hitting with fists, hitting on backs and stomachs..Bill runs into the house. Then one of the Darche boys starts to cry; another says, “I’ll beat the shit out of you.” But I stay on my swing, reaching higher and higher, away from them, until finally they leave, and I sing a last song, until my feet can touch the ground. Yes, I am forced to solid earth, where clouds are harder to see, where winds don’t move as quickly through my hair.

Then one day, when standing in the gravel driveway, I look up at Bill’s bedroom window. It has a little roof right below it, like a terrace that is really the top of the dining room bay. The two of us talk about walking out on it, like having a fancy balcony. But She warns us that it won’t hold our weight, we’d fall, get hurt or worse. And it’s now Bill’s room, that back bedroom at the very end of the hallway, the one that was the nursery, that we used to share, the room that holds the sound of my voice, my crying, my growing up.

But Bill and I will always be buddies, though being older, I sometimes I let that role take over. I tease him or our brother John and I gang up on him, bait him. Bill is thin, blonde and fair, he’s like a shaft of light. And for a while, he has a spate of bloody noses, his nasal membranes sensitive to dry air. And because family problems are discussed, a rhyme is created, something that slips off the tongue—alliterates so well: boney, bloody, blue-nosed, bow-legged, bats-in-the-belfry, Boston baked bean Billy. And yes, he cries when we chant it. So, we keep it up. We have kid-power over this beautiful child who we all love. But then She walks into the room, tells us to “Cut it out.” And we do. 

From childhood on, Bill will keep his smile, his ability to accept our teasing. Because Bill knows how to love, to forgive, to believe in his talents and where they will take him. The friendships he forms will often help make his way in the world. His openness, his smile and laughter, his love of people are truly Bill….someone that people want to know, hang out with, to love.   

I MISS HIM SO MUCH!!  

Good Posture and the Careers that Work Against It

Due to the physically demanding nature of kitchen work, bad posture is a common issue among professional and famous cooks, or people at home who love that hobby. Consider what they are constantly doing….accessing a workspace that requires they bend at the neck for hours and hours. Some cooks have learned to SIT at the counters where they work, thus decreasing the space between vegetables, meat etc that they have to prepare. Others have raised the counter so that the work space is closer to their hands and equipment.

Compare it to working at your computer…sitting is the only way to work in comfort. Bending over a computer while standing, and doing it for hours, is just not easy to do, unless the height of the work space is raised to accommodate the typist.  

Other careers require prolonged time standing, in addition to repetitive movements that lead to hunching over…again think cutting boards, countertops, but also tool boards and other work spaces. All of this leads to musculoskeletal problems and the resultant poor posture. In fact, doctors often refer to it as “baker’s hump.”

A quick search also listed the following: working for hours at a computer in an office; working as an RN, lifting and moving patients with many different conditions, not to mention many different weights. (And that being a key element stressed in nursing school: how to move a patient with different needs, not only to protect the patient, but also to protect the nurse’s back.)

Other high-risk jobs include drivers, construction workers of all types, and hairdressers who often work in awkward, static positions that can cause musculoskeletal problems.

And finally…being a mother. After giving birth to my first child, I had to learn how to hold, carry and even nurse while moving about. Then when I was blessed with our second child, I was again doing all of these things, but now with a toddler trailing behind me.

Love is family…and you will sacrifice your back, arms etc to care for your children. The result: aches, pains and stiffness that even a good night’s sleep (is there such a thing with small children) will not cure. 

FINAL THOUGHT

Don’t do what I did…ignore the situation until it is affecting your family and your life. Physical therapy was the answer for me, and I found that over time I often needed to go back, have my therapist reassess where I was and to MAKE SURE I continued to do my exercises, change or consider my position when doing gardening, lifting my grandchildren, and doing simple things like carrying the groceries. Even today, I sometimes have to go back, get therapy for a TUNE-UP.

So please do yourself a favor, start NOW to care for your back AND your posture. Walking around with a straight back says more about a youthful YOU, that any clothing, cosmetics or hairstyle could ever do. Thanks for reading, Beth