Nobody in Tucson wears shoes

My shoes needed some repair (a little dog decided he wanted to taste red leather).  In my journeys about town, I kept looking for a shoe repair shop.  I saw strip mall after strip mall filled with hair salons, nail salons, tanning booths, cell phone stores, fast food.  Apparently, nobody in Tucson wears shoes (or their shoes don't get worn out or chewed by little dogs).

I stopped by the local auto repair shop in our little rural community to have the oil changed in my car and asked the proprietor if he knew of a shoe repair shop in Catalina.  "Yes, but he had to take his sign down near the road.  Look for the little street between Bubb's Grub and Player's Pub and turn left.  You'll see his house in the middle of the street."  

First of all, Bubb's Grub and Player's Pub are two real restaurants side by side, and note, they are NOT chains.  So I turned down the little street and there was a little sign in front of a modest home- "shoe repairs, open 9 to 5 daily.".  I knocked and a woman called, "I'll be out to help you. " 

Turns out, she was the daughter of an elderly Spanish-speaking man who does the repairs.  His teeny shop was crammed with boots and shoes and old, greasy, squeaky looking machines.  But he could indeed, repair the shoes and have them ready the next day.

In  the last twenty years of my life, I have found three artisans who repaired shoes.  One from Spain, one from Mexico and another little Jewish man who had once been the King of the Strip Clubs, all gentlemen in their 60's and up.  What will happen when this generation of artisans passes away?  Will we all toss our shoes out when they need a little fixing and just run out to buy another pair?  How about watch repairs?  

I even remember a little lady who had a "doll hospital" when I was a kid.  If your doll broke, you brought it to her and she repaired it.  It's been a long time since I've seen a toy repair person.  

It seems to me we are becoming a throw-away society where few younger people take pride in being artisans who practice and perfect a craft.  I suppose if you search hard enough, you can find these folks, but they are not on the main streets of our urban communities.  It costs too much to rent space in a mall so you can fix a customer's shoes for $8.00.  So, if you need a fixer-upper, just ask an "old timer", he or she will help you find the right person.

Musty, cold objects and kids who don't care

One of the clients of our law firm was a gentleman who led a long and distinguished life.  Not only had he served in the Air Force during World War II and Korea, but he was a studious collector of his family's personal histories, of artifacts of the Southwest and Asia and military items including badges, sabers and antique guns.  Sadly, he died of Alzheimer's Disease, leaving all these items behind.  His heirs are two natural and two adopted children.

As we set about collecting and cataloging the items in his home, we found history pamphlets written by his grandfather about the first settlements  in Arizona, catalogues and books about his sister-in-law who was a well-known feminist artist in Boston and Europe in the 1920's and a silver chalice with antler handles from his grandfather's Masonic Lodge in California pre-1900.

Our most surprising discoveries however, were pictures this young air force officer took of Hitler's house in Germany when our troops reached it, pieces of brick from Hitler's bunker and pictures of Russians in labor camps.  Yesterday, while looking for certain legal documents, I came across his military identification card-a proud, serious young man stared at me from those musty, cold files.

Sadly, his heirs are not interested in these items.  It appears that their wish is that these items be sold and the cash divided among them.  

I do not know what kind of relationship this man had with his family.  He could have been arrogant and degrading to them or he could have been the best of fathers.  Whatever those private circumstances, I find it astonishing that these people appear not to care about the past nor the role their family played in key historic events of the late 19th and 20th centuries. 

If we take the time to talk to our children and relive the roles our families played in our common histories in the United States, perhaps those things we leave behind will be cared for and cherished, and not allowed to moulder in cardboard boxes.

Are you an "old timer"?

When I was a kid, I used to hear my folks talk about "old timers."  I thought of them as my grandpa and his circle of friends, a bunch of old guys who enjoyed talking to each other.  Well, the other day, I met an "old timer" and I venture to say, he was not much older than I.

I had lost the keys to my car at one of Tucson's "gem show" sites-big tents where vendors of all types of jewelry, gemstones and other artifacts, hawk their wares.  It was getting cold and dark, so I took refuge in a temporary office that read "Gem Show Sales."   I found a husky, friendly, plain-spoken guy in a plaid shirt,  suspenders and jeans, who was taking reservations from vendors for the 2009 show.  (He had run gem shows since the idea first arrived in Tucson.)

 I asked him if I could wait inside till AAA arrived and we began an interesting conversation.  Turns out he lived in the community of "Catalina", a scattered rural town that surrounds the "active adult retirement community' where we live in Tucson.  This "old timer" told me he settled in Catalina in 1975 when there were a few mobile homes, three huge cattle ranches, little shacks with horses and other livestock, and plenty of wildlife-coyotes howling at night, deer running from them.  He told me about the great "flood" of 1983 that swept through the community from a summer afternoon "monsoon" and how it took out the ranches and the livestock of Catalina.  That day the water swirled 60 feet up a hilly road known as "Wilds Road" that we still use.  

I had often wondered why the county has condemned huge swaths of land along a road I travel daily and why there are the remains of barns, corrals and a few pecan groves.  This "old timer" filled in my puzzle.  

The dictionary defines an "old timer" as "a) an elderly person and b) a person  with considerable tenure or experience in a given place or activity."  I hope someday to be considered an "old timer" with some stories others relish.  Are you storing up some good anecdotes, recipes, pictures or stories so that you can be an old timer too?  I hope so. 

Cards You Sent are NOT Forgotten

When I am called to a home before a move or after somebody's death and there is lots of sorting to be done, one of the things I inevitably find is a bag or box full of cards, papers, report cards, family photos and letters that were saved by parents and older relatives and were received  from their children or from nieces and nephews.  

You may have forgotten the papers and pictures you brought home to your mother; the old fashioned glue and paste cards for Valentine's Day that you made in school or even the store-bought cards you sent as an adult.  But moms and dads and aunts and uncles loved (and still love) receiving these items.

The next time a holiday, or special occasion or just a thought about somebody dear to you, crosses your mind, put a little something in the mail.  It's not the cost or format that matters-it's that personal touch that says "I'm thinking about you."  (This is not an ad for Hallmark; it's a reality that we forget in this age of communication technology that looks down upon "snail mail.")

Cabin Fever

In my business as a Senior Move Manager and in my work as a Geriatric Care Manager, I often see people who are biding their time in a darkened room with worn furniture, sitting wordlessly in front of a television set, wondering, every so often, what time it is, as they look forward to the next TV program or their next meal.  

Today, I visited a "younger" senior; a man in his 60's with a PhD in a scientific field, trapped in his body by an advanced case of Parkinson's Disease.  He sat in a chair where his head slumped downward, no matter how many times I helped move him back to a sitting position. 

His clothes were slightly soiled, his hair greasy and disheveled, his eyes had trouble focusing.  He sat in a room with three much older women, one of whom repeatedly asked for the time.  Not a pretty scene.  Yet, when I talked to this man about the UFO meetings he used to attend, his eyes brightened.  Then he leaned closer to me and whispered  "I have cabin fever.  Can we go to the Korean restaurant next week?"  

The next time you feel bored or angry or slightly ill with something temporary, give thanks that you can walk outside, take a breath of fresh air, make a phone call to a friend or read a good book.  There are so many people hidden away inside stuffy rooms who would give anything for the freedom of choice you have every day.