Pink Shoes

6 04 2013

It’s a rare event that I cave in to buying something frivolous, just for myself.  I have a big, growing family involved in music lessons, a home, a business of my own, my husband’s business.  There is never anything left for foolish indulgence.

The bright pink shoes on the display table were made of the softest leather, leather lined and leather soled.  They were my size and they were on sale. I imagined myself wearing them on Easter Sunday, with my fuschia-coloured dress. I pictured them, casual style, with tight jeans and a bright shirt.  I felt them moulding perfectly to my feet as I met clients in my studio/gallery.   They were like two bright spring tulips in my garden, like two punchy blobs of paint on my palette.  I left the store and dreamed of those shoes for a month.

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I blame the barrel for my weakness for unusual shoes.   I must have been eight when my father announced after supper that he had a surprise for us.  We were to wait for it in the living room.  I heard a distant rumbling coming closer to us down the long hallway.  Dad rolled the barrels into the living room, popped off the lids and dumped out the contents all over the living room floor.  Shoes, hundreds of leather shoes, poured out – red, pink, shiny patent black, pointed, squared-toed,  buckled, laced, buttoned, strapless shoes.  It was raining shoes!  Shoes flooded the floor.  The river of shoes flowed down the hallway.

“Help yourselves!”  my father magnanimously offered with a delighted chuckle as my mother gasped in astonishment.  “Harold, what have you done?”

While my siblings and I charged in like hungry children on a plateful of doughnuts, our father explained how the shoe store in town was closing and the owner had offered Father a deal — $5 a barrel of shoes.  It was the ’60s and Father had a big family and was the principal of a private college.  He often had students in need.  So, he bought the whole lot.

But there was one catch.  There were no two shoes that matched exactly.   Some came pretty close, but the shade of brown was slightly different or the buckle on the left shoe was bigger, or the right shoe had two straps instead of one or the left shoe was size 5 and the right was size 7.  It wasn’t that noticeable if you didn’t stand at attention, feet touching.

From then on, whenever I needed a new pair of shoes, I went to the barn instead of the shoe store and rummaged around for a  passable pair.  Often, I had to polish them to make them match better.  Whenever Father’s students or our own friends came over, we would casually offer them a new pair of shoes as if were a glass of water. It was always a frenzied treasure hunt to find the closest match and the best entertainment we could offer our guests.  Over the years the cache of shoes dwindled until the last of them went up in flames the night the barn burned down.

One thing I learned from that barrel of shoes, is flexibility.   You can make do with whatever you have.   With a bit of imagination and some shoe polish you can make things work.  You can put up with a little discomfort for style.

The pink shoes were still there last week – the very last pair on the sale table  They were a little tight, but I knew from experience that that wasn’t a big problem.  The leather would stretch.   They were outrageously pink, extravagant and beautiful and a barrel of fun to wear on Easter Sunday.

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“Eggstraordinary”

12 04 2012

It had never occurred to me to paint elaborate designs on an egg.  Eggs were for making puffy omeletttes and béchamel sauces.  To me, egg painting was an old Ukranian tradition, kind of in the vein of painting entire landscapes on a grain of rice as the Japanese do.  I just didn’t see the point of either. I am from Canada, where we like to make giant creations (giant goose, giant tomato, probably even a giant Ukranian egg somewhere on the prairies.) Besides, my paintbrushes were much bigger than an egg, which could never survive my exuberant brush strokes anyway.  Even if it did, an egg painted by me would look as if a dog with purple saliva had licked it. But that was all before I met Jan Buley, the wife of my daughters’ piano teacher.

I agreed to attend Jan’s Pysanky class, only because I was sure nobody would show up and I felt sorry for her.  I even dragged a daughter or two with me. It was a small class in the basement of Sutherland Hall that early spring evening.  I was nervous, because I hadn’t painted since the boys were born.  I was convinced that I had flushed down any artistic talent while washing dirty diapers out in the toilet.  Surely, I had rocked it away while comforting a wailing toddler.

“Today we are honoured to have a special artist in our class today,” I heard Jan tell the class.  “It will be interesting to see what extraordinary designs she comes up with.” When I realized that she was talking about me, I seized up completely.

After a brief history of egg painting, Jan produced little wooden sticks with copper cones wedged into one end of them.  She called them kistka pens.  You scoop beeswax into the cone, then hold it over a flame until it melts, then draw your design onto a raw egg with the pointed end of the cone.  The waxy lines dry instantly.  Then you submerge the egg in a light value dye (like yellow).  After rubbing the dyed egg dry, you draw more designs on the yellow with the beeswax, and then submerge the egg into another colour that is a bit darker (like, orange).  Then you draw some more wax lines or shapes on the orange with your kistka pen , and then submerge it in a bit darker dye (crimson).  You carry on the process until you finish with black.  The fully painted egg is placed inside a toaster-oven, just long enough to melt the wax.  You rub off the melted wax with a clean cloth and, voila, you’ve got a work of art on your egg.

Only mine didn’t work. My “eggstraordinary” creation was an embarrassing, slobbery mess.  But, my daughter painted an exquisite egg.  For that reason, I bought the whole kit for us to try it again with my sisters, sons and nieces at Easter.  That was over 10 years ago.

Pysanky, which means “to write” now has become part of our annual, family Easter tradition.  I’ve gotten a bit better at it since Jan’s class, even though my eggs are still sloppy.  I love seeing how all the different, creative personalities come out in the egg designs.  Jamie, who is marrying Gillian in a few weeks, wrote love notes to Gillian over his egg.  Sarah’s and Emily’s eggs are perfect and exquisite miniature masterpieces.  What I like is the happy, social time with my family as we chat and laugh and joke while we make art together around the big kitchen table. Traditionally, the Ukranians painted eggs to keep evil away.    My family paints them to create art, fun and family togetherness.  While painting is usually a solitary occupation, pysanky proves that it doesn’t have to be.

I am very thankful to Jan for introducing me to this unusual but lovely tradition.   Now that I come to think of it, Grandma Beer from the great Canadian frontier of Haliburton used to paint scenes on fungi that she broke off of tree trunks.  Now, I wonder what the Ukranians would think of that?