I saw something this morning that stopped me in my tracks. On our bedroom floor were a wooden horsehair shoe shine brush and a brown tin of Kiwi shoe polish, the kind with the little boat-cleat lever for popping the top of the tin off. I don’t think the Kiwi tin has changed in 20 years, because as soon as I saw it I was a kid again, sitting in front of a crackling fire, polishing my dad’s shoes for a quarter.
I don’t know how often Dad would need them done, but I remember him periodically bringing all of his leather shoes, the ones he wore to work, and his shoe shine kit – a wooden box with a horsehair brush and several tins of Kiwi shoe polish, in black, brown, tan, and oxblood – down to the den for the 8pm family TV hour. He’d pay my brother or me to polish his shoes while we watched The Cosby Show or The Wonder Years, or maybe Cheers or Frasier.
I remember sitting on the burber carpet, newspaper spread to protect its cream color, my dad’s shoes lined up in pairs beside me. I’d take the first shoe – always the left, then the right – and place it over my left hand, my little girl fist inside where my dad’s toes spent their work days, the sole of the shoe facing the TV, the upper facing me. His shoes smelled of rich, warm leather, and with a fire crackling and snapping next to me, and with my family all together in the family room, shining Dad’s shoes was a ritual of comfort and contentedness.
With my right hand, I’d sweep with the soft bristles of the horse hair brush. Swoof swoof swoof swoof, I’d brush the dust off the toe cap, the sides to the heel, and finally the eyelets and tongue. Then I’d put the shoe and the brush down, turn the wing-nut to pop the lid off of the polish tin, and grab a soft cloth (maybe one of Dad’s old undershirts?) that I’d wrap around the first two fingers of my right hand. I’d dip into the waxy paste, its consistency like tinned lip balm, and with a gob of it on my clothed fingertips, I would rub it in small circles over every bit of leather on his shoes, staining the scuffs away. I’d brush them off one last time, then buff with a cloth til the shoe shined.
It was always so satisfying to wipe the dried polish away, the scuff marks replaced with a fresh, even coat of color, the shoes so smooth by the end of their buffing that they looked like they could be new. Like the man who wore them would be as polished and confident and ready for the world as they were, with their new shine. And the smell of the polish, its pungent scent rich and leathery and masculine, would linger in the den, and on the rag, and on my fingertips, a reminder of the hard-working shoes that took our dad to his job every day, and brought home food and clothes and family vacations.
It makes me wonder, do many men still polish their shoes? I’m not in the world of men much, and when I see them, they are usually wearing sneakers or canvas or some sort of shoe that doesn’t require polish. It would be a shame to lose the ritual of shining shoes, of the manly scent of leather and shoe wax, of wearing quality footwear that will not fall apart, and can be cleaned and conditioned rather than replaced when it begins to show its mileage.
I am thrilled that my husband has shoes to shine, and that he plans to shine them. I am looking forward to hearing the swoof of the brush, and the pop of the tin, and smelling the warm scents of leather, and shoe polish, and timeless quality again.
This is so beautifully written. It reminds me of my own childhood and the few times that I also polished my dad’s shoes for him. I loved the smell of the polish and the shoeshine kit: so many accoutrement for the job. The wooden box, the polish, the brush…
You really took me back to a fond memory. Thanks!
LikeLike
I’m so glad this meant something to you. I wasn’t sure if it would be a bore. But that horsehair brush and little tin of polish does bring back fond memories, doesn’t it? Thanks so much for your comment – I thought there might be some other shoe polishers out there 🙂
LikeLike
This is beautiful. 🙂 I’m pretty sure there aren’t a lot of people my age who polish their shoes, but I definitely remember my grandfather doing it when I was little. My grandparents helped raise me for the first five years of my life, and I always loved sitting on grandpa’s lap and helping him take care of his shoes!
LikeLike
I love the image of you sitting on your grandpa’s lap – it’s so comforting 🙂 Thank you for sharing. I’m glad to know that others have fond memories of their dad’s and grandpa’s shoe shine days.
LikeLike
I kind of remember polishing shoes when I was little. I know that I used to wear leather boots and when I would see those shoe shines guys at the mall, I would hop in the chair and have them polish my boots. I just wear tennis shoes now.
LikeLike
I love the thought of a little girl in boots sitting in one of those high chairs at the shoe shine station 🙂
LikeLike
I wonder about that too – I remember by Dad and my Dad’s Dad doing it and had all but forgotten until I read this post. It is a shame to see such a nice tradition go out the window. I’m all nostalgic now – beautifully written!
LikeLike
I’m glad you liked it, and thank you so much. It made me pretty nostalgic too.
LikeLike
My dad used to pay me five dollars to cut his toenails. Gross, yes, but it was something only I ised to do for him.
LikeLike