A Memory to Hold Tight

Over the years, the ritual would take place. When or how frequently, I no longer remember, but I do recall it with fondness because I saw something different with my dad. Maybe it even seemed so out of character for him. Well, kids don't usually ask questions of why; we just add it to the list of things that we think make adults, and particularly our parents, odd and strange. There were actually two things related to each other, and they would have been odd enough on their own.

In the 60s, La Dolce Vita was in Via Veneto in Rome, the hustle and bustle of society, VIPs, celebrities, and whoever wanted to be seen. And so it was with Via Condotti in its heyday. Few tourists as seen today, but certainly respected foreigners, movie stars, singers, crooners, and the ladies flaunting their fur coats as soon as the weather permitted. The shops followed suit with the likes of exclusive and luxury products. Traffic was constant. Via Veneto was a familiar sight simply because one could drive through it as it was the best route to cross Rome. If it was evening, you could tell Via Veneto from afar as the lights really did light up the whole area. Maybe Mom would have wanted to window shop at least, but I don't recall, though it would have been in character. Most certainly she would always comment on the crowd sitting at the sidewalk tables of Cafe Doney, the fashionable in place to be.

We did occasionally go to Via Veneto, but only because a gift was to be found for a visitor or guest, so going to Via Veneto wouldn't have seemed odd at all, although rather infrequent. What really struck me was that Mom would do all the shopping and Dad would just be the one paying, but he would stay in the car, so when it was him that walked into a shop, I really took notice. He went to only one place, and it was Samo, as in Samo calzature or shoes. Even as a kid that knew nothing, I could tell these weren't just any shoes; they really meant business, and the whole place meant exclusivity more than luxury. They had black wingtip laced shoes, the kind so classic in use in the US at the time. I don't know for sure, but it's like the black brogues were imported from the US or an Italian shoemaker made the equivalent. The latter made more sense as Dad never walked in and made a selection; it was more that he had them specially ordered to his size and fit, returning for a pickup. Really heavy with the finest leather, and a price to go with it. And that was the clincher. While we lived comfortably, not lacking anything in particular, Dad was probably a bit of a bean counter, but together with Mom, things were kept fair without being excessive. There were exceptions, but not in luxury. So if I defined Dad as being a little stingy, walking into Samo made no sense at all. But apparently, a shoe from Samo meant something to him, and its price was not to be questioned. Maybe it was a question of fit and style? I don't know, and I can only presume. Dad also wore a hat all the time, part fashionable and part due to his baldness. And he didn't just wear any hat; it was always a Borsalino. All in all, he didn't invest in suits and ties, but he certainly gave special attention to his shoes and hats.

Samo shoe store at corner of Via Veneto

If getting Samo shoes was odd enough, it was just half the story. While he did buy the shoes, he never used them immediately; they had to be prepared and stored for future use. Mom would buy me new shoes, and I'd wear them. Maybe I would switch with other pairs every now and then, but eventually, they had to go to the cobbler for new heels and maybe soles. Maybe twice, but then it would be time for new pairs. With Dad, it was different. He had only brogues, and if he switched, you could never notice. But he never went to the cobbler. So what gives?

So the ritual came to be. Dad would set up shop in our apartment hallway entrance as it gave him a bit of space. I knew it was the ritual because a cobbler's anvil appeared, one of the oddest-looking three-legged beasts. Even for an adult, it was heavy in weight. Dad would place it on top of three phone directories, and he would make use of a child's chair so that he could sit lower. This was completely out of character. Dad was a statistician by profession, I suppose a data analyst by today's definition, and played musical instruments, but he never came across as someone who liked to repair things or do mechanical work. But why would he ever venture into doing something that I suppose was out of his comfort zone? He had his reasons, maybe some obvious, others perhaps a little more personal or obscure. He was totally committed. He planned and made sure he had all he needed in terms of tools and supplies.

He was methodical. He never complained. And he worked at it. He didn't rush. But it was hard manual labor and required some dexterity. He took his new shoes and, working one at a time, applied a heel saver, a sole saver, and a toe tip. I think over the years he had figured out exactly which kind of hard rubber he wanted, size, thickness, and how to actually apply them without any special tools, other than the anvil and hammer. The question begs though - why not go to the cobbler and have it done properly without spending time and hard effort? I can only speculate, but there are some plausible reasons considering some context. For one, Dad didn't speak Italian, but Mom could certainly for him. She certainly was no stranger to cobblers, seeing that she had both hers and my shoes worked on every now and then. So maybe it was a partial excuse. It could have been that Dad could kill two birds with just one solution. On one hand, this would certainly be useful in prolonging their life and probably something that was done for this type of quality shoes. The other, Dad was short in height, both in absolute and relative terms. This was probably something he wasn't particularly comfortable with from a young age, and then going overseas to the US for studies would have only exacerbated it. The brogues gave him a nice heel lift. Appropriately chosen and applied savers could only make it better. Every little bit counted. So the heel and sole savers were probably the thickest he could find, and any decent cobbler may have balked at putting them on since it would have changed the looks of the fine shoes. Was this enough for Dad to resort to taking things into his own hands? Be it as it may, he turned cobbler for an afternoon, and I was there to watch, perhaps even trying to learn something. Actually, it looked quite dangerous. The nails were small and needed to be held in place by the fingers when the hammer had to strike. I never noticed Dad hitting his finger, but he was careful to start with the light taps till the nail set, and then he would go with the firm taps once his fingers were out of the way. And so there I sat, mesmerized by the regular pounding, not really understanding how such small nails could work. He never lost a toe or heel saver. Not a single one ever came off unless he wanted to replace it.

Like father, like son