On Sunday I polished several pairs of boots. Given the extraordinary length of time that I keep most of my clothes, I have to take good care of them. Despite my love of well-made clothes and Fluevog shoes, I HATE to spend money on stuff to wear (I’d rather travel, even if naked). It helps to keep things a long time so the prices amortize out.

For example: one of the pairs of shoes I polished was my Doc Martens. I bought them in early 1991 at Hanig’s Slipper Box at the corner of Clark & Diversey in Chicago, so they are old enough to drive, vote, and join the Army but not quite old enough to drink. I was horrified at the time to spend $110 on a pair of shoes, but I still wear them regularly. I need to get them re-soled.

Polishing shoes always reminds me of my father. He’s the one who taught me how to do it. When I was very little he would polish his shoes regularly, usually on a Saturday afternoon. He even had a little electric shoe-buffer in his room for quick touch-ups: one side was furry red and the other furry blue, like puppets from Sesame Street. The toggle switch made a satisfying click, and the hum of the motor was a sound I particularly liked, as I did the puff of cold air from the spinning buffers, smelling of shoe polish.

He had two wooden boxes full of shoe-shine supplies. On each there was an angled shoe stand on the top that also served as a carrying handle. Would I LOVE to get my hands on one of those! They were filled with nice-smelling, smudged cloths, stiff brushes, tins and bottles. I had to remember carefully which brush was the suede brush, because it was never to be used on polished shoes.

He would set out all the shoes in a line, on top of newspaper, laces removed, and move across, black to brown to cordovan. (Cordovan leather is so beautiful, don’t you think?) First the tack-room-scented saddle soap to clean any dirty shoes, a damp cloth to rinse the soap away. Then he would open the polish cans – I liked when he would let me twist the little metal catch to make the top pop open (almost as fun as when Grandmom would let me open a sardine tin, with a little key that held a flap of aluminum – turn the key around and around, and a little line would open across the top of the tin). He would pat the little round, stiff brushes on the sharp-smelling cake of polish and brush the polish on in circles, toe to heel and around again, until all the shoes were dull.

Then the brushes – first a very stiff one, then the soft brush. Up and forward quickly over the top of the shoe, then down and back, thuck and shush, around the shoe, changing the angle often so there were never any brush marks in the polish, just a clean and shiny shoe.

Those were always quiet times, sitting with my Dadda while he polished his shoes. So it’s a cozy, pleasant chore to me. I have been missing him very much lately, so it was good to sit with this memory, good to take care of my self while I took care of my things.