Walk A Mile In My . . . Sandals

I lost a good and trusted friend the other day. Though my loss was perhaps not as deserving and therefore not a part of the network hoopla surrounding the deaths of more famous entertainers like Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson - to me, mine meant a great deal more.

Sure, I used to laugh along with Ed McMahon and Johnny Carson - who didn't? And I will never forget waking up to see Farrah Fawcett every morning my second year at college - my roommate had her poster above his bed. Finally, even though Michael Jackson and I shared the same birthday, we really didn't have much in common - I can't sing or dance, and I'll bet money he could have cared less about the Dodgers and Red Sox, let alone enjoyed a good round of golf.

No, I suffered a more immediate loss than I could feel for any entertainer or celebrity, no matter how famous. I lost not only a close friend, I lost someone who had been with me for years, and someone who, through thick and thin, I had looked forward to spending many more years together with - some might say, a true sole mate.

Though not very old, their death was untimely, unnecessary, and probably difficult to swallow - literally. You see, my loss can be explained very easily - our new dog ate my favorite sandals. Before anyone panics, the dog is fine - a dog's stomach rivals that of a goat I'm sure - but the sandals are history.

A bit of an overreaction to the now pressing need to purchase a new pair of sandals? I beg to differ. Can there be anything more comfortable than a well-worn shoe/sandal? One that conforms to every toe, arch, and imperfection in our feet? Next to being barefoot in clover on a bright spring day, is there anything more comfortable than taking off your shoes and socks at the end of the day and "airing out the dogs" as a friend of mine once said, and slipping on the well-trod sandals mentioned above? I rest my case.

For those of you thinking that I have finally teetered long enough over the edge towards absurdity or insanity - or both - these were no ordinary sandals. They were, in fact, sandals with a purpose in life beyond simple comfort and protection. You might say, these sandals had a mission to accomplish in their brief and fleeting existence. You see, these sandals had a bottle opener built into the bottom of each sole.

I assume that like a lot of us out there, I have always looked for comfort first in my shoes and sandals. Shoes with lights, odd colors, or glittery shoe strings have never been high on my shopping list. Therefore, a sandal with the quasi-capabilities of a Swiss Army Knife would not normally register with me on the plus side. That, and the fact that most soft drinks and beer today are either in cans or made with twist off caps, and I was not immediately attracted to these sandals utilitarian nature.

But they fit, and a beautiful relationship began. Comfortable, sturdy, and most of all, the perfect accompaniment to walking in Puerto Rico, I never gave their hidden "bonus" a second thought. From sidewalk to beach, from North America to Europe, and from the Caribbean to the Rappahannock, we were rarely apart. But mere comfort was not the only bond I shared with my trusted friend.

If you've ever experienced a rainbow or seen the clouds part after a storm and reveal a shaft of sunlight on the shadowy earth, you'll know of which I speak next. For in walking down Ashford Avenue in Puerto Rico one day - in my favorite sandals of course - I saw up ahead two women struggling with the obviously non-screw top caps of two coke bottles. Like a bolt of lightning, it struck me that I could solve this dilemma for them - not by brute strength, anyone except Don Knotts could offer that - but instead, I had an opener in my sandal! Without a second thought, I immediately approached the two damsels in distress and offered to assist them, simultaneously taking off my left shoe and popping the said caps off. Barely breaking stride to accomplish this near-lifesaving task, I quickly accepted their astonished gratitude and moved on - pridefully surveying the oncoming pedestrians ahead in search of others possibly in need.

A bit of hyperbole? Perhaps. I heard no angels singing, nor did I accomplish this feat while wearing tights and a cape. Did it actually happen? Yes. And short of running into Julia Child on the way to filming her cooking show or accosting a Pampered Chef salesperson, I'm not sure these women could have been helped by anyone else. Right man, right shoe, and right time.

So, goodbye old friend(s). Yes, I will buy another pair of sandals and eventually, they will be as broken-in and comfortable as this last pair. But even if they have an entire tool kit in the heel - and at size 13 that is entirely possible - they will never be able to replicate the cosmic timing, utilitarian success, and moment of true bonding we shared on the street that day in Puerto Rico. Try something like that in your dress shoes or sneakers . . .

You Can Keep Your Groundhogs . . .

There are plenty of methods and systems that people use to predict the seasons. Probably the most famous is Punxsutawney Phil - resident Pennsylvanian and noted groundhog. Others may feel more comfortable placing their faith in the position of the sun (and thus the calendar), while others may prefer the pillars of Stonehenge with their mysterious purpose and past. For years, I used to enjoy reading the Farmer's Almanac and all of its predictions, pithy sayings, and homespun wisdom to help me understand our world.

Yet I have moved on from mere media events, ancient Druid sun positionings, and rehashed Appalachian folklore to an even more accurate - and certainly more entertaining - method for divining the changing seasons. For lack of a better term, I call him "Mine Road Mike".

Each day for the past three years, on the way to and from school, my two youngest children and I like to talk and listen to music (well, they listen, I try not to). Over the first few weeks of our commute, we began to notice that an older gentleman, sometimes joined by what appeared to be his wife, was always seated on his front porch just off the road. No matter the time of day or the weather, this gentlemen was seated on his porch enjoying the view and occasionally waving as we all rushed past on our way to other places.

While at first, we simply remarked that our "friend" seemed to be there all the time, we slowly realized that he was really there - all the time - rain or shine. Over the next several months, we noticed that while his attire rarely changed for weeks at a time - same shirt, same pants, etc. - he did alter his wardrobe for the seasons. In fact, we often joked about how if we never used another source for the information, we would always know the season and time of year based upon which clothes "Mine Road Mike" was wearing.

In fact, "Mike's" system was so simple that even the Druids from Stonehenge would be impressed: Spring - long pants/shorts, white undershirt, light flannel shirt, ball cap; Summer - short pants, no shirt, ball cap; Fall - long pants, heavy flannel shirt/jacket, ball cap; winter - no outside appearances (hibernation?). As impressive as it seems, it isn't necessarily the regularity of the apparel that inspires us as commuters driving by, it is the sameness of the clothes. My money is that they are in fact the same clothes, jacket and ball cap - simply alternated between seasons, but never within the same season.

While it may seem that I am making fun of "Mike", in fact, I am impressed with him for several reasons. At the top of the list is his regularity. To his credit, he is taking in the outside air every day. Refusing to be stuck in front of a television, he instead opts to view the entire panoply of life that encompasses Mine Road and its commuters. More importantly, I respect his ability to choose to wear his favorite attire all the time, without fear or worry about what others - obviously including his wife, might think. Finally, one of these days I hope to find an excuse to just stop and say hello. He seems like a great guy to just sit and have a conversation with.

So, you can have your mysterious Stonehenge, the far too-simple act of looking at a calendar, and you can certainly have your overhyped and oversized rodents. For me, nothing says the seasons like "Mine Road Mike". Long may he wave . . .