Marie Hoekman

Shoes Through Life

As I trudge along the slushy paths at Grand Valley, something tugs at my memory, a faint

tap in the recesses of my long-term. I think how grateful I am that at least I can walk on a plowed

and salted path, regularly maintenanced by those people in the blue golf carts around campus.

The only thing I have to complain about is the melting slush and how it seeps into my boots

though the seams, soaking my socks. I think how all of this walking will help get me into shape.

I used to be in better shape.

Sometimes it is said that one might have big shoes to fill or that there are shoes that

they will have to grow into, walk a mile in anothers shoes, and so on. We break in our shoes,

and we wear them out. We borrow our friends shoes, our parents, but none but our own the

ones trudged through the mud, the snow, the slush and snow, strut tiled hallways and carry us

highly into a formal dinner, get the job done properly.

Climbing up the hill was a workout. Not that it was overly steep or large, but just because

of the sheer amount of snow covering it. Northern Michigan was a hardy school. Anything that

could stand winter after winter in Michigans Upper Peninsula had to be made of tough stuff. But

even they could not keep up with the insane amount of snow that came in off the Lake. Heaven

forbid you have a morning class the day after a long snow. Youd be one of the unfortunate

trailblazers, hiking through the fresh powder coming to your knees and exploring down your

boots, making its home against your socks. If you were lucky, your classes would be later in the

day, and you could step in the footsteps of those unfortunate to have gone before you.
 Water seeps in through my boots, and I think to myself that I would rather have the tall

Northern snow. At least it had the courtesy to at least be tall enough to creep down your boots

before soaking your socks. This artificially melted ice does not. I wish for my Merrell, but they

are clunky and outdoorsy. They dont fit here.

The paths were always icy in the winter on Northerns campus. At -25 degrees, the

melting agents stopped working. I saw someone slip and fall once a day, and I myself fell on a

bi-weekly basis. If it was really icy, I would done my pair of Merell hiking boots with traction so

effective that I felt like Spiderman, whenever I wore them. They were definitely great for

trailblazer days, granted I wore ski pants, as they only went to my ankle, but my feet were never

warmer or drier. Even slush couldnt penetrate them.

Back when I thought I was good at science, I was determined to become a biology major.

It was one oddly warm day at the beginning of the semester at Northern that my professor took

the class out to a swamp, which everyone knew the name of, but Ive forgotten now. We trudged

along the mossy top of a bog, which was very much like walking on a water bed, only it leaked

now and again, and an few girls were unfortunate enough to have their shoes pierce the upper

layer of mosses. They were cursed to have one foot plunge into the icy muck below. I laughed,

because my boots were so waterproof.

Later, we walked on the rocks. The professor, a man with the beard of a hipster, informed

the class on lichen and rocks and how lichen was the basis of an entire ecosystem, because it

basically just ate rocks, if were using laymans terms.

 There was a mountain, well, mountain nearby. It was dubbed Sugarloaf. It was less so a

mountain than it was a very large cliff that you had to mount using an insane amount of stairs

after climbing up an insanely steep hill. If you climbed it, you could probably skip leg day at the

gym for at least a week. My dorm house went on the mountain one day at the end of exams. We

brought sleds, cameras, snow pants, the whole nine yards. It was going to be a regular kids day

in the snow. Not only were my Merells waterproof, but they kept my feet impeccably warm,

even if there was no fancy Sherpa lining inside. My Dad told me that he wore the same boots, in

the mens style, of course, when he went deer hunting. He claimed that they were the warmest

boots hed ever owned, so when it came up that I was going to the subarctic for college, he

insisted on buying me the warmest gear possible.

While on this excursion up Sugarloaf, we played like little kids in the fresh powder,

screaming at the top of our lungs, because wed been forced to whisper the entire week inside in

what Housing called Exam Dead Hours. If you were louder than a dead person, you were

being too loud. It was during these freetime shenanigans that a snowball fight broke out. It was

harmless, at least until someone who was not wearing boots with supreme gripping abilities,

slipped on the ice and landed on his hip. It could have been anyone, anyone at all, but it was, of

course, to be medically correct, a young man who could be classified as morbidly obese.

Now normally, I dont care about other peoples weight, but when its getting dark, and

youre plowing a half-mile downhill stretch of ice and snow with nothing but your boots, so that

an extremely large fellow could be half-carried, half dragged down the hill, you start to think

some rather unpleasant things about people, and I did, with every kick aimed to knock ice from

the several small wooden bridges along the path. Eventually it became nearly too dark to see. I
was sent with two others to make an emergency run back to the dorms for flashlights. Nothing

like a night winter rescue to put you and your shoes to the test.

By the time I get to class, my socks are soaked. Its a three-hour class. Its going to feel

like six now. These city boots, supposedly some kind of leather, but dont keep out the cold or

wet, but theyre at least fashionable. I wouldnt be able to blaze many trails with them though.

Fashionable has never been my forte, at least when it comes to shoes, and as the saying

goes, The shoes make the outfit. So I must never be that fashionable. Even as a child I hated

fancy shoes. They pinched my toes or rubbed my heels and gave me blisters. I always protested

on Easter, when I had to wear a nice dress and shoes for church, even though I was able to wear

casual clothes and sneakers to church every other Sunday of the year.

You cant wear that to church. My mother scolded, as I came into the kitchen.

I looked down at the outfit in question. Why? Ive worn this to church before.

Not on Easter, you dont.

Why? I dont think Jesus cares what I wear.

My mom waved her hand dismissively. Go change into a dress or some nice pants and

shoes.
 When I entered high school, the concept of school dances were introduced to me. It was

exciting, and I dove into the concept of formal wear with enthusiasm. My mother brought me to

Debs to buy my first dress for the Winter Formal, dubbed by the school as the Snow Ball.

Creative. I picked out a cheap pair of heels. Hardly heels. They were the shortest I could find.

Open-toed, black straps and rhinestone decorations. And they were on clearance for under ten

dollars. I couldnt walk in them. I remember thinking it would be easy, and the other teens and

tweens strutting about in higher pairs in the shop without issue, seeing how they fit.

I convinced myself that if I practiced, that I would be able to strut into that dance like a

runway model in those shoes. Of course, that didnt happen. I was stumbling into the building

like a dance like some kind of short drunk. I was able to kick them off, because no street shoes

were allowed in the gym. I wore those heels to every school dance until I graduated, because I

knew I could take them off. I only had to pretend to know how to walk in them from the car to

the door.

I discovered flats. Perhaps discover is too strong of a word, since they were so popular at

the time. I got three pairs of them for Christmas. My favorite was a pink plaid pair with gold

accents. I wore them to school, thinking I was so cool, strutting across the Junior Commons to

my locker. I didnt think that anyone could see them slipping about my heels, as much as I tried

to jam my foot backwards. My attempts were in vain, because one of my classmates pointed out

quite crudely that my shoes were too big.

Youre walking funny.

I looked up from where I hunched over my locker. What?

 Whats wrong with your feet? Youre walking weird. Are you hurt?

My cheeks filled with chagrin. No, its my shoes

They broken? She asked in a somewhat broken foreign accent as she looked down at

my feet.

No, I guess they just dont fit me right.

I still own those pairs of pink and white flats with the golden accents, hoping that

somehow, someway, I will be able to fit into them and strut like a runway model. But I stopped

growing the year I entered my Freshman year of high school, and even though those prize pair of

flats still sit in my closet nearly eight years later, waiting for the right socks to fill the excess

spaces, I know that day will never come. Some shoes dont fit.

So I trudge through the slush back to my car after class at Grand Valley. My boots are

worn, soaked through and stained from melting agents. Even the weatherproofing spray hasnt

protected them. Sometimes I try to get off wearing my moms boots. Theyre not so stained up,

probably because she doesnt wear them as much as mine, but she doesnt let me. I could always

were my Merells, but they dont match what I wear to classes these days.

At Northern Michigan University, it was about literal survival. You wore Under Armor

under your jeans and sweaters. You topped your sweaters with sweatshirts, then the sweatshirts

with double layered eskimo coat with fur on the hood. Then you wore a scarf and hat before

hitching said hood over your head. Everyone looked like bankrobbers on the trail to the

academic halls.
 Grand Valley has heated sidewalks. I was so amused by the little etchings in the cement

outside the buildings Heated Sidewalk Ends As if it was an important warning, as if we are, as

a student populace, expected to have heated sidewalks at all, so much so that we need warning

signs. Perhaps they are heated so that we can wear our fancy shoes, the ones not meant for

winter, the ones meant for business meetings and author readings. Shoes are meant for walks of

life, not hikes through it.