The Great Shoe Sale

The Great Shoe Sale

Recently I found myself scrounging around the attic of Blue Mountain Trading Post, looking for a lost relic I planned to sell on ebay.  Up in those rafters, the dust was as thick as the memories evoked by long forgotten items emerging after thirty years of neglect.  I uncovered an aged mechanical sextant, supposedly salvaged from the USS Franklin.  A distant cousin, long lost friend or pirate had sold my father this and a few other items, which had been clandestinely obtained during the dismantling of the decommissioned aircraft carrier.

There was also a six pack of mini Christmas Coke bottles in the dust covered piles.  More time would be needed to increase their collectible allure.  Hand forged tongs brought home from a Colorado farm auction reemerged.  Some crusty, coverall draped rancher looking to cash in on the 1970's land rush and settle on a beach in Florida had sold them to us.

At the time of the initial transaction, the farmer suggested his great granddaddy had made the forceps using steel taken from a covered wagon he had driven across the Great Plains.  We later met the blacksmith who forged them in his barn.  The barn was located only a few miles from where the beach combing bull shipper had lived, and had no relation to a prairie schooner.  I remember wishing the old geezer would get a first degree sunburn on his lily-white backside for shading the truth.

There was also a rusty, hand made, tin can sheep bell that Espie Jones, a Navajo friend and medicine man, had traded for 25 cent a gallon fuel at our Plateau filling station, which was located on the south side of Blanding.  I thought how I had laughed when Espie made the proposition; gas in exchange for the bell.  My father gave me a blistering look, took the bell and pumped ten gallons into Mr. Jones'  beat-up Chevy truck.  I distinctly remember the lesson Dad taught me that day,  "Good relationships are worth more than a broken bell or a tank of gas, son."

I came across a slightly crooked, metal-tipped arrow, which had been made by John Dutchie.  I recalled how John was believed to be the last Ute Indian to build such arrows from scratch.  From straightening a twisted willow shaft with a bone lever, to attaching fletching (feathers) and a metal arrowhead with genuine deer sinew and hide glue, he did it all.

John often told me how, as a boy, he crafted the arrows for hunting rabbits and white kids.  John has disappeared into the mists of time, but his memory was powerful as I looked at the relic.   Sitting in that cramped attic with his handiwork, I fondly remembered John's wry smile and dry sense of humor.

Pushing past a stack of outdated school books and Craig's old wrestling trophies, my eyes fell on a pair of white and black saddle shoes.  A whirlwind of emotions hit me like a fast moving Reservation dust devil, making me a little dizzy.

The shoes reminded me how, as kids, we were reluctant to let Dad go out of town, because we feared he would return with something humiliating or embarrassing.  Our parents took seriously the responsibility of providing for their young charges, and, much to our chagrin, were uniquely creative in the way they managed their business affairs to ensure we had what was needed.  To this day, people tell me how entertaining it was to visit the gas station and second hand store we manned as children.

The saddle shoes were all that was left of a screaming deal our parents made while looking for size eleven EEE sneakers for Dad.  When Dad could not find shoes to fit, he commented to the store owner that it was surprising the purveyor of footwear did not have shoes at more reasonable prices.  The man quickly replied that he had a large selection of name brand shoes in his basement that he would sell for 50 cents a pair.  SOLD!!!  The old boy cleared out his basement, and set us up for the Southeastern Utah shoe sale of the century.

Susan, Craig, Steve, Cindy and I groaned in despair when we learned of the pickup truck full of shoes.  Mom and Dad did not miss a beat, however.  They called for all available tarps to be spread out next to our gas station, and instructed us to unload.  Now, 1,000 pair of leather shoes covers a lot of ground, so once they were spread out, the footwear garnered a great deal of attention.  Dad set the opening price at $2.00 a pair, and word spread like wildfire that there were bargains available on the south end of town.

People came from all corners of San Juan County to stock up.  Folks were buying like crazy, and it was a footwear frenzy to say the least.  Dad pulled up a chair at the edge of the sea of shoes and began collecting money.  Mom and her brood acted as sales people.  Deals were being made right and left; the more shoes you bought, the cheaper they became.  Parents outfitted their entire family for under $10.00.  It got so crazy, I started grabbing shoes for myself, so I would not miss out on the bargains.  I must have bought three pairs before realizing I could get them free.

By the end of the second day, shoes were selling for whatever people had in their pockets.  Mom and Dad even gave shoes to people who could not afford them.  We must have sold or given away 900 pairs of shoes that weekend.  In two days, our folks paid for school clothes and fees for their five ornery kids.  Our education was ensured for another year, and the problem of shoeing us was solved for the foreseeable future.

During the sale, I met more neighbors and made more new friends than I had during the prior 12 years of my existence.  Many of those relationships have, amazingly enough, lasted through decades of misdeeds and miscommunications on my part.   The embarrassment of being raised by such controversial and creative parents dissipated with those darn shoes.

As I sat in that dark and dusty attic, surrounded by memories, and reminiscing about the past, I realized there was history all around me.  Not necessarily the deep history held by true "old timers," but a personal and meaningful history just the same.  There in that dust, I found a connection to my community and rekindled an appreciation for my family.  I now find the fact that my parents, and many of my family members, are outlandish and unconventional is a great deal of fun.  I enjoy shaking up my own kids with threats of embarrassing activities, and hope one day they will learn to appreciate my twisted sense of humor.

I find my personal associations with unique individuals mean a great deal to me these days.  Relationships are certainly an extremely important part of my history.  Without those friends, mine would be an empty and hollow past, and an undeveloped existence at best.  Life may not be worth living if there are no memorable people involved.  I look forward to the next 50 years, and a few more shoe sales.

Sincerely,
Barry