May always had a great influence over me.  No, not the lady, the month.  It was the beginning of life for another year when everything was fresh, green and young.  It somewhat reminded me a little of myself – another chance for a new beginning in trying to do something right or at least a little better than I had the year before.  What I thought I liked best about May, when I was very young, was when my Father planted corn with his two row lister, pulled by four powerful horses and I would run, playing in the rows where the fresh, cool, moist soil came squeezing up between my toes as I breathed the freshness of spring. This was the time year when I got to shed my shoes for the summer.

Little did I know I didn’t have a choice.  The one pair of shoes that were allotted for the year had not only worn out, they were also too small.

My parents looked forward to this time of year as much as I did,  however, not for the same reason.  The summer was stretched as long as the weather permitted and the next pair of shoes were purchased as large as possible to hopefully make it through another winter.  If you know anything about children’s feet and how fast they grow, you can appreciate my parents dilemma; however, money was their greatest obstacle.  These were the depression years, the harsh, dirty thirties, when moisture was almost non-existent and the only thing that seemed to grow, abundantly, was the tumble weed, filling the road side ditches and lining the fence rows.

Saturday was a day to look forward to.  We did our weekly purchasing of staples at the country store at Weissert and on special occasions we would go to Broken Bow for shopping for necessities that were not available at our country store.

One Saturday evening stands out very clearly.  I’m not sure just how old I was, but I remember a discussion between my parents regarding shoes – whether there would be enough money to buy shoes for their youngest child after food for the week was paid.  The decision was no.  I would have to wait.  I do know we had at least reached September because school had begun and the evenings had turned cooler.  Initially this didn’t bother me.  In fact I was glad.  Shoes were a nuisance, they had to be tied – frequently, and if they were dirty they had to come off every time I ran into the house.  Should I forget, some form of discipline was sure to follow.

Sunday was usually a day of mixed emotions for me.  Like most kids, energy was busting out all over.  Naps were definitely out.  For my Father, it was a different story, he was a deeply religious man-Swedish Baptist, and Sunday was a day of rest.  We didn’t work, other than what was absolutely necessary, such as feeding the livestock and milking the cows.  Playing was even frowned upon and that puts a young kid in a very difficult position.  The one thing we did do was go to Sunday school.  We didn’t have a church so Sunday school was held in the Dry Valley High School.  We never missed that I can recall.

What I do remember most of all in the many years that I attended Sunday school occurred after classes were over and we were all in general session. with Dora Twombley conducting the services. I began looking around at all of our neighbors  – everybody, the adults, the young people and all of the kids.  I looked at their feet and I looked at mine.  I was the only one in Sunday school without shoes.  I didn’t have any.

I’m not sure when I received my next pair of shoes, but I do remember a pair of brown and white wing tips that were given to me by Marie Brown.  A pair that probably her older son Tad had grown out of as well as her younger son Bert.  At that time they were probably the best quality shoes I had ever had, even if they didn’t fit.  They were too small but I wore them anyway.  It was winter and without them my feet would have been cold.  Fashion was not on very many peoples minds in those years.  I always think of those wing tips when I have a pair of shoes that are too small or even look small on my feet.  Those shoes are the only article of clothing I can remember receiving as a hand-me-down from another family.  Almost without exception, we all wore everything out and there just wasn’t anything to pass on.  I liked those shoes – I’d never had shoes that pretty, but I couldn’t wear them out either.  They were passed on to some other boy whose feet would fit into them.

It was another year and again fall was approaching and my feet were bare.  In addition to the depression and drought, our family had been stricken with one more hardship.  My Father had suffered a series of strokes.  Two problems we could handle, but the third caused us to use up what little reserve we had.  Giving up was not in our make up but looking back from today, I really don’t know how we made it.  We were engaged in farming and in the later years of the thirties there must have been a slight improvement in what we raised.  My brother had assumed most of the duties of farming at a very young age with very little promise and less reward.

That was the year that I got a pair of shoes that meant the most to me and always will.  If I bought the most expensive shoes available today, of the very best material, they couldn’t hold a candle to those shoes.  They were brown with cheap black rubber heals that left marks with almost every step that I took.

Those shoes have always had a very special meaning for me, even if they didn’t last very long.  They fit, they were warm and I also had shoes as well as everybody else in Sunday school.

The year was 1938.  I would have been eight, which would have made my brother Carl fourteen.  He had been given responsibilities far too great for someone so young.  A challenge most adults would have said no to.  Outdated, worn out equipment of little value and no assets to work with and yet he not only provided an existence for us as a family but he also assumed the role of morale builder when it surely must have been a time when you would have had to search hard and deep to find anything to be optimistic about.  Most of the humor that is reflected in our family today can be traced directly to him.  There must have been a reward somewhere as he struggled to provide for the seven of us.  The reward could probably be best described as the self esteem he received while giving and caring because there are very few people today who are as thoughtful or as caring as he is or was.

I’m sure he remembered the hurt he had seen in his little brothers eyes so many times when shoes that needed to be purchased had to be postponed so we would have food on our table.  At a time when he had very little, he took what money he had and bought those brown shoes – THE VERY BEST SHOES THAT I HAVE EVER HAD.  THANK YOU CARL!!!

Your little brother.