Memoir: Shoes...Wedgies

When I think of shoes I think of my mother’s wedgies. She never wore flat shoes, and by the time I knew her, her days of higher-heeled spectator pumps was nearing an end. She had wedgies in different colors and fabrics, and told me, after many years of wearing them, the cords in her heels and ankles were so tight, that she couldn’t wear flats anymore.
She would use the white water-based liquid shoe polish that came in a bottle, to clean up her waitress shoes. Pouring the liquid into the cap, she’d dab a small sponge that accompanied the bottle, to put the polish on her food stained shoes. They’d have to sit and dry for while before she could wear them.
These wedgies weren’t the 3”-4” ones that they sell know as a kind of retro summer shoe. There were about an inch or two high in the back, with straps crisscrossing over her red painted toes, and coming around her ankle to close with a fastener.
My mother, Virgo that she was, always had a wiggle when she walked. Most Virgos have a peculiarity to their movements and their speech. Hers was a cute wiggle that got her customers attention more than once. Her brown hair was wavy, shoulder length with a pompadour curl in the front. Red lips emerged from high cheekbones and her smile was readily available.
When I think of shoes, it would be her shoes, several pair of open-toed wedgies, come rain, shine or snow.
Jyoti