Story: The Day My Grandfather Took Off His Patent Leather Pumps, Part One

by Jim
(Chicago)

I look back on my life with great affection for certain people. Of all the people I remember with gratitude, my grandfather stands out. He was a man of great dignity and reserve. He belonged to a world of formal manners and strict rules of behavior.

He was handsome, debonair and dapper - always impeccably dressed and groomed. But that was only one part of my grandfather's character. He was also the kindest, most generous person I have ever known. He did not draw attention to himself. He did not boast of his generosity. But anyone who encountered him left with a wider view of life and a hope for the future.

He had a gift for seeing the best in people - potential they could not see. I cannot thank him enough for what he did for me.

One anecdote returns to me again and again in memory. I was fourteen and appearing in an amateur school play. We had prepared for the play for several months; it was our annual event. If you were old enough to remember that time - the early 50s - you would recognize our teacher, Mr. Razin; he was a type that was common then. He was dedicated and committed to Art with a capital A and he took even a school play very seriously. All the parents, family and friends were scheduled to attend.

Mr. Razin had written our play himself and he was committed to making sure it would succeed. He had strong views on society and social justice and he had written a play about a group of people who encounter a bedraggled homeless tramp. That was the plot.

Then disaster struck. The man who had been cast as the elderly tramp called in and told the director/teacher/author that he would not appear. He did not give a reason. His decision stunned our teacher and the entire cast sat staring at each other in gloom.

It was two hours before curtain time, and soon the auditorium would be full. Every cast member had at least two parts and the tramp was on stage the entire ninety minutes of the play. In addition, he was an old man, and we were all under twenty.

"Where can I find a mature actor at the last minute?!" cried Mr. Razin. At that moment, I heard the familiar, sharp click of a man?s shoes walking, and my grandfather walked in the back of the theater. The quick, crisp sound of his shoes as he walked is a memory that goes to the beginning of my childhood.

My grandpa was an investment banker and a highly successful and respected man. He was on his way to a formal event that night and had come to promise me he would see most of the play but would have to leave early because of the event, as he had to make a speech.

I took my grandfather aside and explained what had happened. We probably would not have a play that night. I then introduced him to my teacher.

The teacher stopped and stared. He looked at my grandpa, who looked back at him in bewilderment.

"Sir, you have saved our play!" cried Mr. Razin in rapturous tones. "You are our answer! You are the right age! You have almost no lines! Our play will go on!"

Nothing could have seemed more ridiculous.

My perfectly groomed grandfather was dressed in the full formal attire of a wealthy executive of that time, white tie and tails: formal tailcoat, satin-striped formal trousers, crisply starched white formal shirt with wing tip collar, monogrammed cuff links, white grosgrain vest, black silk socks, and a pair of black patent leather pumps. That was a more formal time, and nobody was more formal than Grandfather.

I looked at Mr. Razin in astonishment. Grandfather looked at me. I can still remember the stunned look on his face.

I started to explain that my grandfather was a very important banker and he had to attend a very important event.

Mr. Razin became even more enthusiastic. "It is perfect! It will give your performance realism and pathos! Your transformation in status will be filled with symbolism!"

My grandfather merely stared at Mr. Razin. He then looked at me and said: "Will you really have to cancel the play after all this work?"

I nodded. My grandfather held out his hand to Mr. Razin and said quietly: "I will do the part. Someone else can give my speech."

However, my grandfather had no idea what the part was.

Mr. Razin wasted no time with thanks. He took my grandfather's arm and propelled him into the costuming area. He circled him like a small mangy cat circling an impeccably dapper mouse.

"Should I be learning lines?" said my grandfather in his polite, calm voice.

"Take off your shoes and socks" snapped Mr. Razin, pointing at grandfather's feet.

Grandfather?s mouth dropped open. Nobody spoke to my grandfather like this, and it was certain that no one had ever told him to do that.

I quickly explained that he was playing a homeless tramp and that he would have to wear a costume. At that moment, Mr. Razin held up a pair of battered coveralls and a dirty tee shirt.

Grandfather said quietly "A tramp. A bum? I have to wear those. I didn?t realize. Is this really necessary? My shoes and socks? I didn't realize."

Mr. Razin moved into his Eccentric Artist persona.

"You are now a homeless derelict! I have an hour to turn you into a bum! ONE HOUR!?

"But to do the play in my bare feet? Perhaps." said grandfather quietly.

"You have AGREED!" cried Mr. Razin. "You MUST do this!"

"Yes, yes, I agreed" said grandfather. He was a man of is word and would never disappoint us now. "But my shoes?"

Mr. Razin was exasperated. "Excuse me, sir! Homeless bums do not wear fancy patent leather pumps and silk socks! The character is barefoot! BAREFOOT! He is not a banker, sir. he is a BUM!"

Grandfather sighed and nodded. He slipped his hand into the back of one expensive shoe and slowly slid his foot out of it. He sighed and the followed with the other shoe.

"Socks too!" snapped the inexorable Mr. Razin irritably. "We do not have much time!"

"Maybe we can compromise. Perhaps I can at least keep my socks on"? said my grandfather in the tones of a gentlemanly banker discussing financial matters, asking for the privilege of keeping his own socks on his feet!