Went to bed with his stockings on;
One shoe off, and one shoe on,
Deedle, deedle, dumpling, my son John
I remember, long ago when dinosaurs
roamed the earth and My Guy and I were dating, we visited my sister and her
husband at their place in Amherst. Young marrieds, fresh out of college, they
lived in the bottom half of an old white frame house.
She’d never been known for her tidiness
– an array of dirty dishes under the bed when she was a teen comes to mind – so
I was surprised by her request as we crossed the threshold. She’d asked if we’d mind leaving our shoes by
the door. Weird, I thought, but ok. My poor fella, challenged all his life by
aromatic feet, wasn’t sure what to do.
That was in 1969, and I hadn’t run
into this idea until then, only seeing this habit in movies involving Japanese
living. Now it feels like it’s becoming more and more common.
I have friends who automatically
removed their footwear when they arrive, and other friends who never do. It
seems as though if you’re popping by for an informal visit, off they come, but
I can’t imagine inviting people over for dinner and expecting them to eat in
their socks.
As someone not driven to disinfect the
freezer or wash the garage floor, I’d prefer people to remain shod. I’m a
little uncomfortable with people balancing on one foot in my front hall. It’s
not as though they’ve just plowed the back 40 acres. And when I visit, I don’t
want to be worrying on the way over about whether I have on that pair of socks
with the hole in them.
