For those of you who are too young to remember Imelda Marcos, or even those who may have had more important things to do than read about the former First Lady of the Philippines, here’s a quick lesson. Imelda was the First Lady of the Philippines from 1965-1986. She and her husband were known for not only putting the Philippines under Marshall Law in 1972, but more importantly, at least for the purposes of this post, for their extravagant life style. After she died, an inventory showed that among other things, Imelda Marcos owned: 15 mink coats (does one need even one mink coat in Philippine weather?), 508 gowns, 888 handbags and most importantly, at least for our purposes, over 3,000 pairs of shoes. To say that Ms. Marcos was fond of shoes would be like saying, Santa Claus enjoys cookies. It was an obsession. I remember being both fascinated and disgusted by that. My youthful self was indignant that a politician’s wife lived so lavishly while most of her country suffered under their brutal regime. But then again, I could never understand shoe obsessions in general, even when Carrie Bradshaw made it popular again on “Sex in the City”.
Interestingly, my mother also loved shoes, not to the tune of 3,000 pairs worth, (although to be fair, I never actually counted), but she was obsessed with shoes as well. She used to tell me that you can gain or lose weight, but shoe size pretty much remains the same. (Hard to argue with that). I can’t recall how many times she would say that no outfit was truly put together without the proper shoes, or that “shoes make the outfit”, while staring disapprovingly at my very unfashionable footwear.
In my defense, I did buy flip flops in several colors, but apparently that is not what she had in mind. At any rate, when word got out about Imelda Marcos’ compulsion for shoes, we jokingly called my mother, “Imelda”. She considered it a compliment and wore the title like a badge of honor. I’ve often thought it a shame that Mom did not live during the “selfie”, social media craze. She no doubt would have had an Instagram account dedicated to shoes, or even a YouTube channel with a title like, “Pat’s Posh Footwear”. Her dedication to and obsession with shoes, was formidable. She bought shoes a size larger, in case her feet swelled. She squeezed into shoes too small when the store didn’t have the correct size, but the color was a perfect match for her new jacket. She loved the fact that in her generation, you did not wear white after Labor Day, as it gave her an excuse to buy Fall shoes. She had boxes on shelves and shoe racks spread throughout the closets in the house. When my brothers and I moved out of the house, she never saw it as losing a son or daughter, but rather as gaining a closet. I have no idea how she kept track of her shoe collection, but somehow, she did. For someone not known for her organizational skills, her skill in footwear cataloging was an entirely different animal. She organized her shoes, the way a librarian organized a card catalog back in the day. She always knew exactly where every pair was. I could just ask, “Do you have navy shoes to go with that?” and without a second’s hesitation she would answer,” pumps, flats, boots, or heels?” She had sneakers to wear while going to flea markets, practical pumps for church , heels for dining out and boots for inclement weather.
When it came to shoes, she did not discriminate. Her shoes came in a variety of materials: canvas, leather, suede, satin, and in every color imaginable. Her shoes had high heels, low heels, wedge heels, flats with no heels and boots with rubber heels. When invited somewhere, Mom always had the perfect shoe and could miraculously find that shoe within minutes. I am actually getting dizzy visualizing her shoe collection! To be honest: It truly was a sight to behold. I almost envied her commitment.
After my mom passed away, my father and I had the difficult task of going through her things, an invasive, but sadly necessary part of the death experience. Upon entering the sacred sanctums otherwise known as her closets, we found mountains and I do mean mountains of shoes in every closet, with the exception of the one in her bedroom, which she generously allocated to my father. (Nobody ever accused my mother of being stingy). With each child’s departure from the nest, she found more and more places to store her shoes. There were not only shoes on racks, and shelves, but also loose on the floor. As I began to sort through it all, I began to understand her very complex organizational system, which was initially incomprehensible. We discovered that the ones still in boxes on the top shelves were for “special occasions”, the ones in the racks were her “shoes for everyday things” like card night, lunch with the girls, church, visiting neighbors, shopping etc. and the loose ones of the floor were on the way to the happy shoe store in the sky. Her shoes were further subdivided into closets. The shoes in the guest room closet (formerly my younger brothers’ room) were ones she rarely used, but stored there “just in case”. The shoes in the TV room (formerly my room) were her frequent fliers: shoes that she used more frequently or on a daily basis. Shoes in the downstairs closet (formerly my older brother’s room) were shoes that she bought for a specific occasion, such as a wedding. They were stored in that closet along with the outfits for which they were purchased. But within each closet she still had the hierarchy: boxed, on racks and on the floor. She always kept a few for dirty jobs like cleaning up a spill or gardening and would select from the loose shoes on the floor in closet number 2. She didn’t throw any shoes away until they were unsalvageable and the fact that she had so many at the time of her death, proved that she did not easily give up on things, or at least on shoes.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t overly shocked by any of that. What did shock me though were the number of shoes in boxes, that had never been worn. They were still wrapped without a single scuff mark on the sole, inside the box with the receipt. Many of the receipts were over 20 years old. Some may have been older, but the ink was too faded to decipher. Who buys shoes and holds on to them unworn for 20 years?? Well, that question was quickly answered as we burrowed through Imelda Palmieri’s closet. It made sense in a way as my mom, who treated bargain shopping like an Olympic sport, often bought the same shoes in multiple colors and sizes, because the price was right. It really was impressive in a strange, albeit disturbing way. When we finally reached the pinnacles of each closet, painstakingly labeling and sorting her collection, we had more tough decisions to make: what to do with this vast collection.
We nanrrowed it down to three options: donating the entire collection to a museum, offering them to friends and relatives, or spreading her collection across multiple charities. While the Pat Palmieri “Shoes across the Decades” display would be a winner for any local museum, we decided that putting them to good use would make my mother happier. We offered some to my niece and sister-in-law who wore the same size, and donated the rest to various charities, assuring that no woman who wore a size 8 shoe in Northern NJ was denied stylish footwear because of finances. I’m sure my mother would be proud of this legacy, but her story doesn’t end here.
As I mentioned, I never understood her shoe obsession, until one day a few years ago, when I was diagnosed with a bone spur on my heel, resulting in plantar fasciitis. Alas, I had to give up my beloved flip flops in favor of shoes with “good support” thus beginning my own journey into shoe madness, oops, I mean obsession. While I was not shopping for designer shoes, nor shoes that matched every outfit, I was forced to buy expensive shoes that offered the support I needed. I soon found it difficult to find supportive shoes that didn’t look like orthopedic or “old lady” shoes, as we used to call them. While I didn’t need Jimmy Choos, I didn’t want granny shoes either. I tried a variety of different brands and styles, with color merely an afterthought. When I found some that worked, I bought several just in case my shoes wore out without advance notice. In that worse case scenario, instead of waiting a week or so for new ones to arrive, or heaven forbid they were out of stock, I could just go to my closet and pull out another pair. I mean, that makes sense right?? I quickly realized that while I didn’t necessarily agree with my mom that shoes made the outfit, I did realize that good shoes allowed me to be comfortable in any outfit, which may be similar??? Once I started, there was no stopping me as I continued my quest to collect shoes for all occasions; hiking, work, dressy, beach etc. It was after taking advantage of a buy one get one 50% off price on hiking shoes to support my new hobby that I realized you can’t hide from genes forever, and at that moment, I was forced to admit, that while I still had a long way to go, I may yet prove a worthy successor to my mother. While my shoes were not stylish nor designer, they were expensive and plentiful. After tripping over a pair of shoes in my closet, I decided to invest in, a” few” shoe racks. I shudder to admit, I even have a few “old” shoes I keep in the downstairs closet for gardening and running to the store. Worst of all, I must confess, I have a few still in boxes, never worn, but who can resist a buy one get one half off sale? Apparently not me, nor my mother!
I could almost see the pride in her eyes, as I hit the “complete purchase” button on my laptop with each new acquisition! It’s funny to think that something we used to tease my mother about has somehow brought her closer to me, six years after her death and I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was the realization that my mother and I had something in common after all, or perhaps it was just the smiles that came from thinking about my mom’s shoe addiction, but the memories made me realize that we shared many other traits, much more important than an obsession with footwear.
Granted, Mom and I were very different. Take our personalities for example: My mother entered any situation like a category 5 hurricane, while I was more of a tropical storm. Trust me, when Hurricane Pat was at full strength, you wanted to evacuate ASAP! We also had very different senses of style and fashion: my mom had a classic fashion style, was always perfectly accessorized and coiffed, while my style is more, whatever is clean and comfortable, not accessorized and hair pulled back in a messy bun (emphasis on the word “messy) most of the time. In short, my mom could have given fashion advice on the pages of Vogue, while I would likely be featured as the “before” picture in a Vogue makeover. I was always so much more like my dad, personality wise, that I was shocked to discover I did share at least one of my mom’s traits. And while embracing the Great Shoe Epiphany, I smiled realizing we did have more in common, much more, only the memories had faded over the years. Much like the ink on those 20+ year old receipts in her shoe boxes, the memories though faint, but were still there nonetheless. I know she would find this whole shoe narration just as amusing as I, proving we shared a sense of humor. I have no doubt she would laugh at my description of her obsession, while still staunchly defending her collection. My mother and I also shared a joy in giving. Whenever she would shop, she would always pick up something for a friend or one of her children. This was true of shoes as well. Often, she would say, “I bought these shoes, but I have ones like them, I’ll give them to Linda.” I realize I also love buying for others, as my credit card will document. Like my mom, I like to give gifts that evoke memories and often enjoy giving the gift probably more than the recipient enjoys receiving it. I realized the joy of giving was another trait I inherited from her. When it came to shoes, I again found myself modeling my mother recently, giving a pair of shoes that were similar to ones I already owned to a friend of mine, who admired them. I was so happy when she told me how much she loved them. Once again, I smiled thinking how much like my mother that gesture was. And as much as I hate to admit it, when we recently celebrated my friend Kathy’s birthday, I noticed she had really cute shoes on, which made me look down at my own comfort-based Oofoo clogs with embarrassment.
I did get dressed up for the occasion, but when I compared my shoes to Kathy’s, I could hear a heavy sigh coming from the heavens and while I didn’t go home and change shoes, I did promise Mom I would look at my feet before I stepped out next time. Thanks Mom, I know you only want what’s best for me, no matter how hopeless it seems at times.
Regardless, I am grateful that my new shoe obsession brought back wonderful memories of my mother over the years. It wasn’t just the shoes, but the mental pictures of her in them, that made me smile. Each shoe stirred up long buried memories: the satin pumps she wore to my brother’s wedding, and how beautiful she looked as she danced the night away with my father, the rubber boots she begrudgingly bought when she visited me in Alaska, hating them for their bulkiness, but having a good time in spite of herself while we walked along the trail watching belugas off the coast, the worn, backless slippers she wore around the house, evoking warm memories of hearing that familiar shuffle in the morning as she came out for breakfast still groggy and mumbling “Is the coffee ready?”, the pewter sandals she carried in her hand as she and I walked along the beach discussing nothing and everything. The shoes served as a catalyst of sorts, helping me keep the pain of my mother’s death at bay, while allowing me to embrace and relive all that made her so special. Thanks to a shoe collection, these memories are now in the forefront of my mind while the painful ones are relegated to a back corner, away from laughter and of course, shoes. Funny how something as simple as shoes helped me realize that while Mom and I were not necessarily cut from the same cloth, we may still leave some of the same footprints. (See what I did there?) Hey, if the shoe fits….
New Endings 