I remember well the day they were
purchased. My three-year-old daughter Kristin and I were strolling the aisles
of J.C. Penney when she spied them. There was no way we were leaving the store
without those shoes. Not without a scene, anyway.
The threat of a tantrum wasn’t what
convinced me to buy them. We had recently purchased the video Annie, and it is understatement to say
she was enthralled by that movie. She knew the words to every song, the names
of all the orphans, at least half the lines. She also had her own versions of
the tap dances, which she labeled “clap dancing.” As she explained in the store,
she desperately needed those shiny red shoes to properly execute that activity.
I could see her point.
Those inexpensive shoes well might have
been one of the best investments I ever made. The bows became tattered, the
soles wore thin, and the buckles and insoles disappeared completely. But it
made no difference to Kristin. Even after they were too small for her, she’d cram
her chubby feet into them and dance
with pure joy, oblivious to the pain. By herself or with other people present, she’d
shuffle her feet, flail her arms, and, of course, throw in the requisite claps.
Because most of our house was carpeted, our small brick hearth became her
stage.
Fast forward seventeen years, and
she was a college sophomore home for summer break. We’d just had a ceramic tile
floor installed in our den, and she and I stood in the doorway of the room,
cleared of all furniture, and admired the hard new surface. “Man,” she said,
her voice filled with awe, “wouldn’t this be a great place to clap dance?”
She declined my request for a
demonstration. Although I laughed, a part of me was sad. I realized that—as is the case
with most of us—somewhere on her journey from childhood to adulthood, more than
her feet had outgrown her clap dancing shoes. But at least I have a priceless
memento of a pint-sized free spirit who, before the phrase was ever penned, “danced
like nobody was watching.”
Today, Kristin has babies of her
own, the oldest almost three. He is as taken with the movie Cars as Kristin was with Annie. I’m picturing her one day in the
future, cleaning out a closet and coming across a toy model of Mater or Lightnin’
McQueen. I’m betting she doesn’t throw it out.
Have a “worthless
treasure” you’re not willing to part with? (It doesn’t have to be kid related.)
Share, please!
