Lost Soles

Crum­bling Soles

The fam­ily wed­ding was set to be an exquis­ite occa­sion. Our wed­ding out­fits were care­fully cho­sen weeks before the event. My two sons would be hand­some and smart in their crisp white shirts and neatly pressed black pants, all bought espe­cially for the nup­tials of their pre­cious aunt.
As a sen­si­ble mother, and real­is­ing that children’s wed­ding out­fits were gen­er­ally one-off affairs, never to be worn again, I’d applauded my recession-savvy ways of bor­row­ing shoes for my youngest son. Black and seem­ingly per­fect leather shoes were duly pol­ished and packed away for the impend­ing occa­sion. He was to stand proudly at the entrance of the chapel with his older brother, hand­ing out song sheets and look­ing decid­edly dash­ing.
The wed­ding was to take place at a resort, com­plete with its own pris­tine white chapel with pol­ished porce­lain tiles, high ceil­ings and walls of glass allow­ing for breath-taking views of a lake and man­i­cured golf course.
My out­fit had been cho­sen with care too – a frothy crushed mul­berry cre­ation that made me feel a bit like a present, with its sump­tu­ous satin bow fin­ish­ing off a lacy bodice. My hus­band would be fit­tingly dap­per in a brand new suit and my daugh­ter exquis­ite in her sage green satin and chif­fon dress – a pic­ture per­fect flower girl.
The stage was set. The day arrived.
“You go on ahead,” I told my hus­band, once we were all dressed and ready in our hotel room. At the last minute, my sis­ter in law had requested that I pin her dress. No prob­lem, I pro­duced safety pins and we duly fixed her flaw and pre­pared to make our grand entrance as sis­ter in laws of the bride. Very Impor­tant Peo­ple, we joked in our fin­ery.
Pinned and preened, the two of us tot­tered down in unchar­ac­ter­is­ti­cally high heels to the chapel, and caught sight of my two sons at the entrance with my hus­band look­ing rather con­cerned.
“Evan’s shoes have fallen apart,” he announced soberly.
There was a moment of con­fu­sion. What did he mean? The sheer mag­ni­tude of the prob­lem emerged as I saw the hor­ror unfold. The soles of my son’s appar­ently sound shoes had begun to dis­in­te­grate the minute he arrived at the church entrance. The short walk to the chapel had caused the sole to part com­pany with the shoe, bit by bit, leav­ing a trail of rub­ber in his wake. These were shoes that had been worn twice by their owner, my friend had assured me. But by child num­ber four, the rub­ber had begun its insid­i­ous decline and per­ished unno­ticed. A deceiv­ingly new pair of shoes was thus ready for total dec­i­ma­tion the minute the wearer began to walk.
My first response was laugh­ing dis­be­lief. Then came sheer panic.
As a mother, there was always a solu­tion to a child’s wardrobe mal­func­tion. There have been pinned hems, socks found on cue under a car seat, shoes fished out of a boot when all seemed lost. Tuck­shop money found lodged between seats and drink bot­tles retrieved from under­neath them. I am the queen of impro­vi­sa­tion.
I have made dinosaur out­fits out of egg boxes and stock­ings. At a minute’s notice, I have cre­ated Easter bon­nets, breath­lessly and expertly blow­ing out the egg innards and dec­o­rated the hat with real eggs. I have never pan­icked; have always man­aged a prac­ti­cal solu­tion to any last minute request. I have prided myself on my moth­erly inge­nu­ity.
For the first time ever, I humbly drew an absolute blank. I could not think of a sin­gle solu­tion.
At this point, we could have either left qui­etly or sol­diered on and seen the mirth in it all. We chose the lat­ter. We ambled up the pris­tine aisle, with my son gamely hand­ing me clumps of rub­ber that I duly squashed into my lit­tle black beaded hand­bag.
We took our fam­ily front row seat and the cer­e­mony began. I applauded his resilience as through all those beau­ti­ful hymns, the touch­ing exchange of vows, he qui­etly handed me bits of his shoe as I kicked the remain­der under my seat. Please for­give me, Jan, but it took all my willpower not to explode in hys­ter­i­cal laugh­ter when you finally said “I do” – not because of the hilar­ity of the moment but because my son had handed me the last of his sole – we were down to metal. I still have it as a keep­sake.
And then, when I thought I had my laugh­ter under con­trol, my eight-year old son, nudged his sis­ter, in all her fin­ery as an esteemed mem­ber of the bridal party, lifted up his rav­aged shoe and showed her what remained of the under sole.
“Look at my shoe, Lara,” he whis­pered loudly.
And then it was all over. The beau­ti­ful bride, obliv­i­ous to any drama, to any clumps of sole glar­ingly obvi­ous on the spot­less white tiles, made her exit with the love of her life. She didn’t notice a thing.
Love, really is, as it turns out, absolutely blind.

PS. The silent prayers of this mum were answered and we made it to the recep­tion with a bor­rowed pair of shoes from an angel in the church. He drove all the way home to retrieve his son’s school shoes. I am for­ever indebted to you, Uncle Gary.

Copy­right © 2008 by Lois Nicholls