Aunt Ida's Flip-flops

Last week I shopped for shoes in Kerrville and thoroughly enjoyed choosing the skimpiest flip-flops in the store. I couldn't help but think of how much my Aunt Ida would have enjoyed the summer styles I take for granted. In her later years, she was cursed with bad feet misshapen from years of ill-fitting hand-me-down footwear and hard ranch life. Her current shoes were worn enough to have holes of varying shapes and sizes here and there, and the soles were wearing thin.

Aunt Ida was actually my great aunt, sister to my mother’s mother, but she often stepped in as grandmother since she had no children of her own and my actual grandmother died when my mother was only fifteen. One of my childhood summers, I was spending a few days with her and lucky enough to witness the opening of a huge box from Sears, her favorite shopping place (thanks to catalogs) challenged only by Monkey Ward. Included was a pair of sensible black shoes, sturdy cotton hose, a jacket, and some items for Uncle Carl.

Aunt Ida was most interested in the new shoes and quickly tried them on to check the fit. Yep, they would do, and certainly looked better than the ones I had seen her wear all week. After she removed the new pair of shoes, she pulled a knife from her apron pocket and stabbed it into the toe of one of the shoes, sliced off a ribbon of leather, poked another hole on the outside edge, carved out a couple more, and continued in this way with the other shoe. The final result was a strange looking pair suggesting unique sandals but looking vaguely familiar. I glanced over at the old shoes and almost immediately noticed the similarities –- the holes were in the same places for the left shoes and for the right shoes. Of course. Ingenious. Each hole in the new shoes had a purpose: to relieve a sensitive spot on her aging feet.

So, dear Aunt Ida, I bought another pair of flip-flops to honor your memory, and I wish I could give them to you and see the pleased expression on your face. But to get that post between your toes you might have to give up those thick cotton stockings.

Goats Redux

Two weeks have passed, and yesterday I returned to the goat ranch for painting class. The yard gate had a new latch hook. My teacher said that after her son installed it, the young nanny moved to the front yard gate and figured out how to open that one. The son put a different style of latch there and solved the problem. No more goats in the yard.

After class I loaded my paint box and palette into the back of my car and went to get my paint boxes. At my car again, I was surprised (but not really) to see that young brown female trying to climb in while other members of the herd stood around and watched. I'm sure she would have eaten my wet canvases if I had loaded them first. The evidence of sky blue paint would have been all over her quivering hairy lips. Cabrito, anyone?

Driving home I wondered about the kind of nanny she will be someday. What will she do with the kids while on such escapades? Will she be too independent to get involved with any of the males? Will she run around bothering those goats who have chosen normal goat life, even leading some of them astray to her own beat of the drum? Will her penchant for opening gates and going where boundaries say she’s not supposed to be put her in a predicament she can’t resolve successfully? Perhaps always a kid.

Back to School

Today the granddaughters return to school, and I hope their teachers are ready. N is so excited that her assignment will be to write about what she did during spring break. Only in first grade, she has no idea how many times she will confront similar topics in future academia. Her main concern is not having enough time to write when she wants to include everything from the rope swing to the Crystal Cave hike. We lost count of the number of times she exclaimed “This is the life!” during her week in Texas.

K will be ready to celebrate the lifting of any glass, whether juice or milk or water, at her school with the toast she created: “Cheers to our lives!” Then she will want to “clink” the glass of every classmate the same way she does with us and our wine glasses and drink cans. She has been enjoying this routine with us (and sharing it at school) for a couple of years, but I’m not sure if her teachers find it as endearing as we do.

Life around our house is mighty quiet now that they are home again, but June is coming soon.