For the Love of a Shoe

There was a time during my early adolescence when buffalo shoes were all the rage. I adored them. But I’d had foot issues from infancy and my parents refused to let me get a pair of wedges, certainly not after years of paying for costly orthopedic footwear. They believed buffaloes would undo the corrective work Katz’s hideous rubber sole shoes had wrought, though it’s likely the doctor had also told them as much.

I can still recall my desperate longing to own a pair anyway. I was convinced they were the secret to the insouciance all the other girls my age possessed, an aura I felt I lacked in spades. My envy was powerful, and I can reach for the memory of it as if it were a leaden, physical object I once held in my hands.

And yet, there was no moving my parents, no matter how much I begged and fought. Buffaloes remained elusive that entire spring.

One summer evening, I went with them to the erstwhile Bradlees department store. I hid some of my babysitting money in the top of my bra before we left the house, a trick I learned at an early age from my grandmother, who used to do this with her bus fare. While my parents shopped, I ran to the shoe department to purchase a pair of knockoff buffaloes in my size (Bradlees did not carry the original Buffalo brand). I didn’t even have time to try them on.

At the agreed hour, I met my parents at the exit. I tried to keep calm and casual. After all, I was hoping to pull off the greatest stealth operation of my youth.

“What’s in the bag?” they asked me. Anxious and fearful I was going to lose my only chance at those shoes, I clung to that bag for dear life, the plastic handles cutting deep into the palms of my hands.

But there was no point. The battle of the buffaloes was lost. My father walked with me to customer service, where I returned them. In a final plea, I promised never to wear them if he let me make the purchase. I just wanted to own them, like every other girl I seemed to know. Alas, I crawled into the car with tears in my eyes, placing my sadness, disappointment, and rage on the seat next to me.

I was too young to know that by fall, buffaloes would be out of style, that all I needed to do was be patient and this yearning, too, would pass.

Flash forward to this afternoon, when these caught my eye at Marshall’s. Not the exact pair I remember, but close enough. And there were others, similar styles, some with higher wedges, others lower. The new buffalo wave of 2019.

With childish delight, I tried them on, admiring how they looked. But they weren’t comfortable. I felt unstable, certain I wouldn’t be able to walk far in them. Yet I considered buying them anyway. I mean, who’s going to stop me now?

Instead, I let them transport me back in time, where I forgot that I’m middle-aged, that I have bunions, that I long ago relegated heels to the back of my closet.  And yet, it was with the insouciance of youth that I placed the buffaloes back in the box and returned them to the shelf. I took my seat at the wheel of the car and drove home with a new pair of Crocs instead, my heart happy, and my feet, too.

 

Saying Goodbye to Lord & Taylor

LTselfie

I went to the city last week for a few meetings. To those of us who live in its orbit, the city means New York City, with its unique urban quirkiness, culture, and pulse. It has so much to offer, but one of my favorite things about it has long been its potential for shopping serendipity, especially in tourist-jammed midtown this time of year.

Nearly all of that’s gone now –  the costume jewelry, hand-knit puppets, used books, and all kinds of items for sale on tables set at random intervals along the sidewalk. They have been replaced by “I Love New York” merchandise, $10 knock-off watches, and pashminas, identical displays without much character on every corner. It’s a shame, too, because shopping on the sidewalks of New York was once an adventure, the source of some wonderful finds.

On the other hand, Lord & Taylor’s flagship store on Fifth Avenue was where I went when serendipity would not do. I was devastated when I first heard the news that the store, which opened in 1914, would close its doors after the holidays. It feels like a seismic shift, the loss of a landmark on my personal Manhattan landscape.

I, like so many others, made a pilgrimage to its holiday windows nearly every year since childhood. Later, it would become my go-to place when I began to shop for myself. The Saks I could afford, it’s where I bought my first professional wardrobe and nearly all of what my mother and grandmother called foundation garments.

In December 1991, I purchased an outfit at Lord & Taylor that would launch 1,000 ships in my life. I wore it to an interview at the Joint Distribution Committee, a position that brought me to Zagreb in 1992, where my career changed direction and I met my husband. When we married, I bought outfits for our sheva brachos there. When I was pregnant with our boys, the store’s ladies room was my public bathroom of choice. Later, after we’d already left the Upper West Side for the suburbs, I’d return to search its racks for a dress for their bar mitzvahs.

It’s no surprise, then, that after my meetings last week, I felt compelled to bid Lord & Taylor farewell on my walk back to Penn Station. I wanted to say thank you, and to pick up a souvenir to remember it by. I happened upon the perfect thing as soon as I entered the store.

See these geese? Smitten, I wanted to take one home.

geese

Although I was on a tight budget, I knew the evening gowns were selling for $16.99 and figured a goose wouldn’t run me too much. I got giddy envisioning the ideal location for it in our living room, where it would allow me to wax poetic about the Lord & Taylor of yore. Plus, I wanted the fun of walking down Fifth Avenue with a large goose under my arm, though I was somewhat concerned about getting it on the train.

I asked a saleswoman at one of the makeup counters for help. She had no idea whether the geese were for sale or not, but she smiled at me like nothing was odd about my request and went off to inquire. She returned with the disappointing news that the geese were destined for other Lord & Taylor stores in the suburbs.

I told her in earnest, “These are New York City geese. I can’t imagine they’ll be happy there,” forgetting for a moment that I now live in the suburbs, too. Still, believe me, that goose would be loved and cared for in our home, not ignored in some dark storage closet in the bowels of a mall.

Anyway, she was lovely about the whole thing, reassuring me that I’m not alone in my feelings of nostalgia for the store, though she admitted I was the only person who’d asked her about the geese. She suggested I head to the 10th floor, where fixtures and staging items were for sale, figuring I might find the right souvenir up there.

This eerie display of mannequins greeted me as I stepped off the elevator.

mannequins

Everything Must Go!  Ha! Everything but the geese, apparently.

I roamed around a bit, curious what I might find. There were large frames, light fixtures and ornaments, oversized flowers and miniature chairs, as well as an array of miscellaneous items that once beautified the store’s display tables and windows. In the end, I found this wounded bird – not quite a goose, but a little something with feathers and character.

bluebird

With my new .50-acquisition in the tiniest plastic Lord & Taylor bag, I boarded the train bound for home. Yet I haven’t stopped thinking about the goose that got away, and also about the fact that this is the end of an era. Until the store closes after the holidays, I’m going to dream that one of those geese takes flight and finds its way to me. We belong together in the embrace of our shared retail memories.

If not, I guess it will be off to the mall next December to pay them all a visit.