The Wing Tips

I have always loved wing tip shoes because my Dad used to wear them. He took the time to point out to me the difference between wing “tips” and wing “backs.” The wing “tips” ended before the arch of the foot, and the wing “back” reached all the way to the back of the shoe before tapering off. As he would say, a blind man going by ninety miles an hour would never notice. But I always prided myself in knowing such a detail.

Their style is very 1940s, which was my parents’ heyday, but my dad was not a sentimental person and wasn’t one to dote on things of the past. He was in fact the opposite of a pack rat, and my mom and I would oftentimes find some of our possessions in boxes ready to go to Goodwill because he thought it was time to purge. So when he was sentimental about something, as he was about these shoes, it made an impact on me.

I’ve never been a sophisticated dresser and spent many years wearing over-sized clothes, due to a traumatic encounter I had when I was a maturing eleven-year-old girl. I’d had a slumber party for my birthday and one of my friends and I had traded clothes to wear the next day. I was developed for my age, and for the first time in my life, I was wearing a form-fitting shirt. I was molested that very day. Consequently, I grew into a woman who was drawn to men’s suit coats and baggy clothing. I didn’t actually tie that little psychological connection together at the time, but now it seems so obvious, as most things do as time goes on.

One day when I was shopping, I saw in a storefront window a pair of wing tips for women. I excitedly tried on my common size eight (though I probably would have shoved myself into any size if mine had been sold out). I should have bought two pairs because I rarely wore any other shoes for the next several years.

I was twenty-nine and “still not married” when my dad became ill. On a moment’s notice, I threw my baggy clothes and my favorite shoes into a suitcase and flew to El Paso to help my mom, who was struggling with depression and was not able to cope with my Dad’s hospitalization. After two weeks with him, he was transferred to a rehab hospital to begin rehabilitation, but he passed away the first night he was there. Over the next several days, my brothers came from different parts of the country. After the memorial service and taking care of family business, we found ourselves with some idle time.

“No wonder you’re not married,” I heard my brother say. I looked up.

“You’re wearing men’s shoes,” he said.