Only today isn't rainy, it's shiney. Very shiney, as in hot! It's hot, and I've just made my dad happy. I've bought him a new pair of walking shoes, and, let me tell you, they weren't cheap.
The problem is this: my 93 year-old Dad's feet hurt him when he walks. They hurt him when he wakes up in the morning, and they hurt him when he lays his head down at night to go to sleep. They hurt him when he eats, and they hurt him when he's hogging the TV watching... well, you know what he likes to watch. They just plain hurt him. But, the thing is, he doesn't blame his feet.
He blames his shoes.
I drive to Willcox, Arizona on occassion. And every time I do I see an old man jogging down the road. It never fails, he's always jogging. With a big smile on his face. I honk my horn, and he always gives me a big friendly wave as I drive by.
One day, I decided to stop. I stopped. He stopped. I got out of my car, and he walked on over with his right hand outstretched. He was ten feet away, and already eager for a handshake. I guess that's how it's done in a small town. How small? Well, it doesn't even have a Wal-Mart, for gosh sakes.
I didn't stop just to be friendly. He had old feet just like my Dad, and I was curious what kind of shoes he wore. Heck, he jogs every day. They must be comfortable.
"Hey, how's it going?" I said.
"Hey, how's it going?" he repeated, and he snatched up my hand before I had it completely raised. He shook it vigorously.
He looked even older up close. Passing him at 35 mphs I wasn't able to see just how wrinkled he was, or how thin his hair was. But he was an energetic old coot, and I call him that in an endearing kind of way. He was happy to see me, even though he didn't know who I was, and happy to talk with me, even though he didn't know what I wanted to talk to him about. I could have been there to rob him, and he would have happily handed over his wallet as long as I stayed and talked awhile.
"I don't mean to interrupt your jog," I told him. "But I just wanted to know what kind of shoes you're wearing?"
I looked down at his feet, and I saw they were Nike's, but I couldn't tell what kind of Nike's.
"My shoes?" he answered. "Oh, I've got about six or seven pairs."
"What kind are you wearing now?"
"I'm wearing my favorites."
"Yeah, and I can see why, they look pretty comfortable," I said, and it was true. They did look pretty comfortable, and well-worn, but that didn't tell me what I wanted to know. "I can see they're Nike's, but what kind are they?"
"They're Nike's? I didn't know that."
Huh, wha? He didn't know? Surely, he's joking. ("And don't call me Shirley!") At least, I hope he's joking.
"Do you know what they're called?" I asked him.
"They're called Nike's. You just told me that."
"Yeah, but what kind of Nike's?"
"They make more than one?"
A big rig was coming down the road at us, so I put a hand on his arm, and we moved a few feet to the side. I decided to take a different approach.
"Did the salesman who sold you these shoes tell you what kind they were?"
"I bought them at Big Five Sporting Goods."
That didn't really answer my question. In fact, it didn't answer it at all.
"Did the salesman at Big Five tell you what kind of shoes they were?"
"I bought them at the Big Five in Tucson. Do you live in Tucson? If you want a pair like these, you'll have to go there."
"No, I don't live in Tucson. All I need is the name of the shoes you're wearing."
"They're Nike's. My wife and I were driving through Tucson on our way to Rawhide in Chandler, Arizona. We were taking the grandkids. Rawhide used to be in Scottsdale, but they had to move. We stopped in Tucson to get some gas, and I saw a Big Five. 'Let's go in here awhile, honey,' I told my wife, and that's where I bought my shoes."
Great. He could tell me everything BUT the kind of shoes he was wearing.
I was familiar with the Rawhide he was talking about. It's an old western town with donkey and stagecoach rides. They have actors who dress up as cowboys, and have gunfights with each other. They used to have a camel you could ride, but, sadly, he died. You can still see him in movies, none of which I can remember the names of. The best thing there, in my opinion, is their steakhouse, where, besides great steaks, they also have fried rattlesnake and mountain oysters (If you want to know what mountain oysters are, you'll have to look elsewhere. I'm trying to keep this blog G-rated.), both of which I've tried. They also have a very spacious dance floor, and a live country band. At any time during your meal, you can get up and shake a leg. And then you can shake the other one. Maybe you can even dance. One other thing the steakhouse has is the best bread pudding I've ever tasted.
When my kids were still kids, we always made it a point to stop there and have a good time. And I'm not just saying that to get a free mule ride the next time I go.
"No, sir, I don't live in Tucson, but if you can just tell me what kind of shoes you're wearing that would be a great help."
"They're Nike's," he said.
I was getting nowhere fast, so I decided to cut my losses and say goodbye. A part of me was kind of frustrated at how he wouldn't answer me, even if it was just to tell me to get lost, but he was so happy to have had someone to talk with, I wasn't able to make the jump from frustration to being mad. He reminded me too much of my Dad.
"Well, thanks a lot, sir," I told him, and I even meant it. "You were a big help."
Well, I didn't mean that one so much.
He shook my hand even more vigorously as I tried to leave, and as I drove away I could see him in my rear-view mirror waving goodbye at me for longer than he had to.
Meanwhile, my Dad's feet still hurt, and Tucson wasn't too far away. I didn't think Big Five would be too hard to find.
It was near a gas station.
Raising My Father
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