The Old Back of the Shoe Sermon

One of the numerous responsibilities that crowded my childhood was the task of polishing shoes. A family of ten yielded 20 shoes and required a heap of elbow grease. First I would cover the floor with old newspapers, making sure it extended far enough to contain them all. I lined the shoes up in a solemn profile; dirty, battered, scuffed up shoes in dire need of refurbishing. The baby shoes, a defiant white stood, at the end of the procession. Out came numerous tins of shoe polish, followed by well worn rags and a used and abused brush. The tins would have an earthy, pungent kind of smell when I twisted off the cap. The polish would be invariably down to the metal with a lumpy dried up ring around the edge. Then with a very discerning eye I had to match the right color to the shoe. There is brown, and there is almost brown. Once the decision making was over the spitting began. As a person who disdained spitting I would allow a privileged sibling to do the honors. How else could I achieve a spit shine?

 Next began the task itself. All those pathetic looking shoes had to be brought to life. I started with the fronts, rubbing the polish in deeply. I than assaulted the leather with a rag. “Don’t stop until you see the whites of your eyes,” my dad had instructed me. That is pretty difficult on a brown shoe. I rubbed furiously until the fronts fairly glistened. When it was the sides of the shoes my rub was a little less furious. Still the trooper that I was I soldiered on. Next was the back of the shoes where the seam line screamed finished. A tedious task, I thought, the brush does not even embrace properly. Who cares I would tell myself, no one looks there. I became downright sloppy. That was of course before I heard the Back of the Shoe Sermon.

“Yes,” my dad had pointed out to me one day, “the back of the shoe tells everything. It gives you a glimpse into the character, the very soul of the polisher.”

I had looked down nervously at the 10 pair of shoe standing naked on the paper.

“A principled person, he went on, does a job well for their own satisfaction not for show or appearances.”

I moved restlessly.

“When you start doing things based on the visibility you are forgoing the value of a job done right.  Would you polish a bureau and leave the drawers in complete disarray. No you would take pride in completing the task completely including what shows and what doesn’t show.”

Dad always gave examples of his point in work references. I was beginning to see the light in spite of myself.

“The foundation that will house your values must be laid carefully. Each brick must be placed with integrity, however obscure to the naked eye. Take as much pride in the seen as the unseen.”

Dad’s lecture never left me and has served me well in the appraisal of others. I mean until this day I cannot meet a suited and booted individual without my eyes, invariably, traveling to the back of their shoes. What a window!