This would have been a no-brainer for any of my ancestors. Your shoes wear out, you patch ‘em. And patch ‘em. And keep patching ‘em til there’s no shoe and just the patches. Then–and only then–do you contemplate throwing them out.
As I watched my favorite pair of shoes develop holes in the soles I was despondent and tried to deny that street water was entering onto my socks. Then I stopped wearing them, and simply abandoned them in the closet. After a month or two as I gathered some old clothes to give away I decided it was time to toss the shoes and maybe try to find that same brand online.
Then I remembered my early days in NYC, when the shoe repair shop on the corner of 94th and 3rd saved my soles many, many times. I drove around Huntington Beach until I found a tiny little shop within a large, bland strip mall. I handed my dilapidated brown shoes to the elderly proprietor and showed him the mangled bottoms. He discussed my shoes in a language I didn’t know with another cobbler in the shop, then turned to me, grinned and said “Next Thursday?”
Magic words.
My shoes are fixed. They look terrific. And I walk happy.
