The Red Shoes by Nancy Hart

My first memorable encounter with color occurred when I was a toddler, about 2 years of age.  I had outgrown baby shoes, and walked into a pair of bright red  Oxford lace-ups. The shoes were a gleaming cherry red, with matching shoe laces. I looked down at those shoes constantly as I walked along, so in love with that beautiful color. 

One afternoon, my Uncle Norman came by the house to visit.  He took it upon himself to polish my shoes.  No doubt they were scuffed.  We lived on a dirt road and I had stumbled over many pebbles and rocks.  Anyway, Uncle Norman polished my shoes with Oxblood Shoe paste, popular on the market at that time. It was nothing akin to the charming color of my shoes. Uncle Norman  turned my beautiful cherry red shoes into an ugly, earthen oxide color. I was enraged.

 

I howled and cried.  I pleaded with him to turn my shoes back into their original color.  He buffed with a shoe brush, over and over, but nothing would restore the cherry red color. It never came back.

 

If a toddler has ever had murderous thoughts, I was guilty of them then.  Usually, I loved seeing my Uncle, and reacted with glee when he came to visit.  Now, I raged against him, turned my face away and cried.  To add insult to injury, Uncle Norman found my reaction hilarious.  The more he laughed, the angrier I became.  Finally, my parents interceded.  Enough is enough.  They did not tolerate tantrums, even justified ones.  I was without allies on behalf of my ruined shoes.

 

From that moment forward, I took no pleasure in wearing those shoes.