When I was a kid in the suburbs of Chicago, I had a bedroom in the basement of my parent's house. My Dad has a workshop in the basement, as well as a large closet for his workclothes, gloves, boots, shoes, etc. He worked as a garbageman, and would often come home with wet boots. In the winter, he'd place these on top of the furnace with large Christmas lights stuffed into them to safely(?) dry them from the inside while the furnace dried them from the outside. It made the basement smell funny. On the ground he had 3 or 4 pair of New Balance tennis shoes; each in a slightly different state of deterioration. The worst ones were for cutting the grass, the next for working in the shop, and the nicest for wearing out in public. My Mom often extolled upon me the great waste of wearing white socks into dirty places. If I did this, she'd warn me, I'd have to buy my own socks. And so, when I wanted to go into my Dad's shop, I would slip on a pair of his shoes, much too big for me, and venture onto the cigarette-littered concrete floor of the coolest room in the house. I'd go to make a pinewood derby car, or a bottle-rocket gun, or to steal a can of pop from Dad's stash; but usually, it was because Dad was working on something. Dad built most of our house by himself; to walk around in it now is akin to standing in his trophy room. His rookie years are documented in places like the buried electric box above the shower. His MVP years are hidden in the kitchen walls and the garage ceiling.
Now, when I go home to visit, I still sometimes slip on a pair of his shoes and go into his shop to see what new projects are brewing on the ample counter space. We wear the same size shoes, now, but I still don't seem to fill them. I hope I never do.
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