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My father walks every day--EVERY day--rain or shine.
The problem is this: my 93-year-old father's feet hurt when he walks. They hurt when he wakes up. They hurt when he goes to sleep. They hurt when he eats, and when he's hogging the TV. They just plain hurt. The thing is, he doesn't blame his feet.
He blames his shoes.
I was driving through a small town on my way to a bigger town when I saw an elderly gentleman jogging. He had a big smile on his face, and was giving me a friendly wave, so I decided to stop. As I got out of my car, he walked on over with his right hand outstretched. He was ten feet away and already eager for a handshake.
I didn't stop just to be friendly. He had old feet like my father, so I was curious what kind of shoes he wore. Happy as he was, they must be comfortable.
"How's it going?" I said.
"How's it going?" he repeated, snatching up my hand before it was completely raised. He shook it vigorously.
He looked even older up close. At 45 mphs I wasn't able to see how wrinkled he actually was. He was an energetic old coot, and I call him that affectionately. He was happy to see me, even though he didn't know who I was. Happy to talk with me, even though he didn't know what I wanted to talk with 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 a while.
"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 at his feet. They were Nikes, but I couldn't tell what kind.
"My shoes?" he answered. "Oh, I've got about six or seven pairs."
"What kind are you wearing now?"
"I'm wearing my favorites."
That didn't tell me what I wanted to know, so I said, "I can see they're Nikes, but what kind?"
"They're Nikes? I didn't know that."
Hunh.. ah.. wha?
He didn't know?
Surely, he's joking. At least, I hoped he was joking. And don’t call me Shirley.
"Do you know what they're called?" I asked him.
"They're called Nikes. You just told me that."
"But what kind of Nikes?"
"They make more than one?"
A big rig was coming down the road, so I put a hand on his arm. 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."
Again, he didn't really answer my question. In fact, he 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 told him, “I don't live in Tucson. All I need is the name of the shoes you're wearing."
"They're Nikes. 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 moved. 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 Rawhide. It's an old western town with donkey and stagecoach rides. They have actors dressed like cowboys having gunfights with each other. They used to have a camel you could ride who even starred in movies, none of which I know the names of. Sadly, he died. The best thing there is their steakhouse, where, besides great steaks, they also serve fried rattlesnake and mountain oysters. If you want to know what mountain oysters are, google it. I'm trying to keep this column G-rated. There’s a spacious dance floor with 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 for 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 Nikes," he said.
I was getting nowhere fast, so I decided to say goodbye. Part of me was 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 someone to talk with, I wasn't able to make the jump from frustration to being mad. He reminded me too much of my father.
“Thank you, sir," I told him, and I even meant it. "You were a big help."
Well, I didn't mean that last one so much.
He shook my hand even more vigorously as I tried to leave. Driving away I could see him in my rear-view mirror waving goodbye for longer than he had to. Meanwhile, my father's feet still hurt. Tucson’s just a few hours away. Big Five shouldn’t be too hard to find.
It’s near a gas station.
Go fill up on laughs.
