Sand Shoes

It's a rare moment when I get to be a positive influence in the life of a young child. I, in fact, go out of my way to avoid them on trains and in restaurants, where I find their behavior coarse and intrusive. That's why I was pleasently surprised this Saturday, spending the afternoon at the beach with my friends Steve and Johnny, and Johnny's little girl, Lucia.

Lucia is three, and quite beach savy for her age. She builds decent sand castles, (or "zoos", as she prefered they be called) and shows a natural understanding of shells and sea weed as decorative materials. She has a keen interest in baby crabs too, and does not hesitate to scoop one up and raise it high above her head, like a living trophy, for all to see and covet.

I have a routine at the beach where, when I'm done swimming, I wrap a towel around my waist and bury my feet in the sand--It's just what I do. Sitting like this and watching little Lucia chasing her Daddy in the waves, it occured to me, that with a three year old around, grown ups must be a source of entertainment lest the child cry or turn into Stalin. In this mode of thinking, I had a flashback to my own childhood, and realized why I always bury my feet in the sand: to make shoes.

When we were very young, my sister and I would take turns burying eachother's feet in the sand and carving out a ridiculously over-sized pair of shoes. The Beach Cobbler (sorry) would meticulously draw on laces and cool racing stripes, while the customer would have to sit still nd try not to disrupt the other's handiwork. Half the fun was stepping out of them at the end; like breaking some cartoon chains of bondage.


Jones Beach 1983--I don't know who these people are.


Of course I showed Lucia my sand shoes and they were a revelation. She laughed her head off with delight.

I haven't told my sister yet.

I'm still working on the office wallpaper. I know it's creepy.