I don’t understand. I’m ten years old; why can’t I pick out my own shoes? I want the penny loafers, but mom says they’re slip-on shoes and that they’ll slip off my feet and I’ll lose them. That’s ridiculous. I’m running around the store right now with them totally on my feet demonstrating their stick-to-it-ness. I want these shoes, but mom is hard core. She doesn’t take to whining. In fact, whining will earn me more than a hard look from dad. It’ll lead to a spanking.

Lost in a daydream on how to avoid spankings, my heart jumps when mom announces, “Okay, I’m going to buy you the loafers.” Then she adds, “You’re getting the ones with the fake penny holders. You won’t be able to put pennies in them. That part will just be decoration.” Suddenly, I feel inferior, but I still want the shoes. I’ll just tell people that I lost the pennies. Besides they were designed in the 1930s for emergency phone calls from a booth and this is the ‘60s. Calls are a dime now. 

The next day it’s pouring rain. I walk a mile to school in rubber boots while juggling an umbrella, a stack of books, a lunch box and my precious new loafers in a vinyl shoe bag. It’s a lot to manage for a fourth grader in a torrential storm, but I get there. I’m so excited to put on my new loafers. Curiously, however, the bag is unzipped and contains only one shoe. I burst into tears sobbing so hard I can’t even speak. I’m more afraid of the punishment I’ll receive than the lost shoe. (Spankings are commonly doled out for incidences out of control; cries of “couldn’t help it” or “not my fault” often fall on deaf ears). 

The teacher takes me by the hand and leads me to my older brother’s classroom. Dan’s in the sixth grade. We’re given permission to leave the building, alone, to search for the shoe. There’s so much rain coming down I can’t even see. I retrace my steps down a winding hill. Using a long stick, Dan dredges all the large puddles that flank the asphalt path, but there’s no shoe. It’s just totally vanished. I want to vanish. And in a way I do. I have absolutely no memory of what occurred afterwards. I don’t remember going back to school. I don’t remember going home. I don’t remember what happened at home. 

When my father passes, I spend a year going back and forth to the house to help my mother with his affairs. We box up Dad’s good suits and donate them to a men’s shelter. Next, we contact the Veteran’s office. He was in the Korean War, maybe there’s some money for my mother. We discuss his sax and clarinet, both keepers. Then I volunteer to investigate his basement woodshop, a place I never dared go as a child. Past the ancient boiler covered in asbestos and across the orange and brown sponge painted floor, I open the door and see a shop well-kept; nothing of concern here. 

On the way back upstairs I decide to check the storage closet for additional coats. It’s packed. With effort I push the clothing apart and something on the floor catches my eye; a pair of very small, highly polished penny loafers. I take them upstairs and ask mom where did these come from? 

“They’re yours,” she says, “Don’t you remember? You thought you lost one on the way to school but it fell off at home. You were so traumatized, I don’t know why, but you decided never to wear them again. I saved them thinking you’d eventually change your mind, but you never did.”

RAMONA JAN is the Founder and Director of Yarnslingers, a storytelling group that tells tales both fantastic and true. She is also the roving historian for Callicoon, NY and is often seen giving tours around town. You can email her at callicoonwalkingtours@gmail.com.