The Island Shoe Girl's Blog

Shoes to get you to cocktail hour, to the airport and to unload a truck in. Photo by Jean Thornton

I am one of those people who can never be too far from lines of communication.  My Blackberry is generally very close by.  Of course this being a modern world, most of the world is connected to me through this genius of a product.   Any chime, ring or vibration produces a level of curiosity that forces me to look and see what the latest update is.   In this handy gadget is both great freedom and great restraints all at once.  I am never truly unreachable and never completely disconnected.  I can check my email about the latest shoe sale, Google the comparable prices, and then update my Facebook status to “Stylish.” 

In other words, my technology keeps me extremely connected, as was the case last weekend.   At one point I had three chimes, rings and tones on my Blackberry, each different but all making me realize something about how others view me.   The first was a friend texting me to ask if I would like to meet up for a cocktail that evening—a pretty standard invite, but a meaningful one since I believe that it is the casual gatherings that usually are the most fun. 

The second was a request from another friend who was returning to Key West and needed a ride from the airport.  Thankfully Key West is small and the airport is very manageable for pick-ups and drop-offs.  Any Key Wester with a car is happy to play taxi driver rather then have friends pay for the ride, and generally there is a thank you drink involved.  Beyond that I am happy to help this friend out and pleased to be the first to greet her in Key West, especially since she is my main shoe photographer!  Hey—a shoe girl has got to protect her team. 

The last phone call was a little different.  As a shoe girl and a case manager at a homeless shelter, I am accustomed to strange phone calls.  I can receive calls ranging from Chanel spotted in a consignment shop to a homeless mother in desperate need of housing.  And I do my best to resolve both.  But this past week I got a phone about a large food donation.  Okay food donations are generally pretty easy to resolve as most items can just be quickly dropped off to our food pantry.  This, however, was a much larger donation—a whole semi truck loaded not just with non-perishable food items but also with fresh fruits, bread, and similar that needed to be used very soon. 

A shoe girl in her trusty platform heels with a blackberry is practically unstoppable.  With a few phone calls, a little bit of pleading, and some very good volunteers, all the food was being dispersed to food pantries and soup kitchens within two hours.  And while I was tired from my unexpected Saturday afternoon adventure with food distribution, I was also proud of myself for being the person who could solve such a problem while helping others. 

Looking back on these three requests I realized something about myself and others.  When a friend invites you for a drink it means they enjoy your company, they see you as a positive addition to their day.   When a friend asks you to pick them up at the airport, you know they think you are reliable, someone they can depend on to be there for them at the end of a long journey.  But when you are asked to make something happen—like distributing a few tons of food—you know that they trust to do the right thing… you are someone who can make things happen.

At the end of the any day, my Blackberry always has a long list of who has called, who has been called, who texted or emailed, and any Facebook updates.  Sometimes, however, it is not so much the words and messages exchanged that matters most.  Sometimes it is understanding why you were chosen to receive the message that says it all.

Shoes worth remembering. Photo by Jean Thornton.

Recently I had to make an unplanned move; luckily I found a great apartment near the Key West Cemetery… a coveted neighborhood. The cemetery is really the only one in Key West and certainly the only one accepting new inhabitants.  As is true with many old cemeteries, the graves are not all neatly in line, and some sections look like they have been tussled around in a hurricane or two.  Being an island cemetery there is also a limit on how deep one can dig and how many can be fit into one plot, so many graves are actually stacked on top of one another. 

This not only makes the cemetery visually interesting to explore, it also provides ample amounts of reading while I walk my dog along the perimeter.  Apparently cemeteries have very interesting smells for dogs because mine never seems to get tired of sniffing the fence as we walk by.  This also means I spend a lot of time trying to keep him from using the bathroom on any graves near the fence.  The various headstones are also thought provoking; no I do not ponder the value of life, the passing of time, or my own mortality.  More often I think of what will become of the remains of this shoe girl. 

I already have a lengthy after-life plan for my shoes; and even with that, I still fret over what will become of those poor little soles if my wishes are not respected.  But what happens to the shoe girl after that bright white light?  What becomes of the girl who walked far more than a mile in stilettos?

During my strolls along the cemetery, it is easy to contemplate moving into the most exclusive neighborhood in Key West, yet I worry about whether or not I could even get in.   Heck, it was hard to find an apartment within two blocks!  Who wouldn’t want to be there; it’s quiet, good security, regular landscaping—no wonder folks are dying to get in. (I couldn’t resist.) 

There is also the advantage of a gravestone, which has your epitaph and is really the only way to get the last word.  Of course, I am jealous of the epitaph Carrie Bradshaw predicted for herself, “Here lies Carrie, two great loves and lots of shoes.”  My friend Key West Lou once said, “Stephanie does, as Stephanie does” and I thought that might be an excellent epitaph.  Might sum up my life really well.   I do request that it not say that I have passed too soon or indicate I deserved more years.  I soon will be thirty and I feel I have already had a very good run; let’s face it most of the characters on Little House on The Prairie died before they were 30.  At this rate, I have outlived about 30% of the Walnut Grove townspeople. 

But I am not narcissistic enough to hope that generations to come will stand over my grave and weep for my lost life.  I am also not one to believe the soul is attached to my body.  I suppose dedicating my body to science might be a good idea.  But I would only be okay with that happening if I die in incredibly great shape; that is—only if I am exiting a plastic surgeon’s office for my last follow-up visit when I drop dead or if I might be laid out for viewing by group of young doctors.  And if the plastic surgeon did a really good job, flip me over and show off that awesome butt I paid for too.

Perhaps the only option for me would be cremation.  I think this is the more modern means to an end.  Of course I do not want to necessarily be put in an urn and displayed on a mantel or library shelf.  My mother has always insisted on dusting, so I doubt that my sitting around being dust would go over well with her.  She might even come back and haunt my ashes, which would just be absurd. 

When it comes to spreading my ashes, I have some slight concerns.  Let’s says I am spread near a favorite bar and a few years later it becomes a Hooters or the peaceful field later is developed into some type of flat shoe factory.  I would never be able to rest in peace and there would be no way to collect me and move me elsewhere.    Or what if somebody really obnoxious got dumped near me and for all eternity I have to hear them babble on?

It is beginning to look like cryogenically frozen is my best and only option—unless future generations thaw me out in a world filled with Crocs and Uggs.  The larger issue still remains that at the end of our lives the bodies we have worked for years to preserve and to present at their best becomes useless in many senses.  Perhaps on my future walks I should not think so much about what might become of me physically but instead focus more on what might become of my memory.  Sure, there could be shoe monuments built in my honor, but the best memorial might just be a plain-old good memories shared by loved ones.

There are many of us out there who can recall exactly where we were when we heard about the 9/11 attacks.  I was in college then, and remember seeing a report that a plane had struck one of the World Trade Center Towers, and for a brief moment it seemed to be just a fluke accident.  I turned off the television, headed toward the library to read the journal article I had neglected to read that weekend.  By the time I got to my early class, another plane had hit the other tower and a third had hit the Pentagon. 

I learned this from one the most frightening college professors I have crossed paths with; he was one of those professors that didn’t bother learning your name and instead handed out nicknames based on physical characteristics.   My oldest brother then lived in Hoboken, New Jersey, and commuted every morning on the PATH train, arriving in the World Trade Center station.  Immediately I was afraid of two things: the first was if my brother was okay and the second was walking out of the classroom to find out if he was alright due to the risk of upsetting the dreaded professor.  Luckily he shortly adjourned class, telling us there didn’t seem much point in trying to teach us that day.

This was still a time when not everyone had a cell phone in their pockets so I had to make the long walk across campus before I knew if he was safe.  On a normal day, campus would have been full of action at that time of day.  But on this day, it seemed empty; if there were people around me, I didn’t notice them.  When I got back to my dorm room, my answering machine was full, filled with messages from friends and family calling my roommate and me.  The last one was from my Dad to let me know my brother was safe—he had decided to work from home that day.

Obviously there was relief, but there was also great sadness knowing that, across America that day and for days after, there were sisters out there whose brothers were not safe.  And there were also mothers, fathers, brothers, spouses and friends who did not get a message that some they loved was safe.  The joy of one being safe that day was diminished by the realization that so many others were not.

The news talked a great deal about people who walked that day: those who walked out of the towers, those who walked out of Manhattan, those who walked in to save others, and those who never got the chance to walk in or out.  I think about the walk across my college campus that day.  I cannot tell you what shoes I had on, if they were stilettos or wedges.  I cannot even remember if it was cool that day or still warm from a fading summer.  All I remember is walking and wondering what news awaited me back in my room.

In the days following 9/11, a local tattoo parlor offered free red, white, and blue ink for a donation to the Red Cross.  A friend and I went and had red, white, and blue stars put on our feet.  And while I don’t pretend that my walk was anywhere as frightening as those who walked away from the towers or those who walked in, I know now that wherever I walk in life, a little bit of that day walks with me on my foot. 

I have worn a lot of shoes in my life and I really hope to wear many, many more, but those stars will be with me in every pair.  Just like I know that day will also stay with me and so many others.

This week my Grandmother Doris Kaple passed away. My family and I take comfort in knowing she is now with her long time love Jim Kaple. This week as we celebrate her life, I wanted to share a blog I wrote about the life, love and family of Jim & Doris Kaple. Grandma, your love of Grandpa shows that true love last long beyond life as the love our family feels for you will as well.

Jim & Doris Kaple

At 7am the morning news shows begin to hum with the daily headlines, and following the stories about North Korea’s missile launch practice and the debate over a parent’s right to end their child’s chemotherapy comes the daily update on Jon and Kate Plus 8. You can insert one of the clever headlines here, “Jon & Kate Plus Divorce” or “Jon Plus Date”—at this point we have heard about every combination imaginable. It will surely be only hours until Dr. Phil is weighing in and offers to “get real” with these reality stars. As I flipped channels to escape the body language experts and the television psychologists who were offering professional opinions based solely on edited clips, I question how this fascination began and when will it end.

I guess a large family comprised of multiples is the perfect pitch for a television sitcom, scripted or not. These days numerous family-based reality shows are popping up, from the Duggars, stars of 18 Kids and Counting, to the latest family, the Hayes with their show Table for 12. They all have their share of funny moments, cute kid one liners, and parents dishing out humorous antidotes on how to make it all work. At the end of each show I am left scratching my head and wondering, “so what?” Yes, you have a lot of kids and yes, there are endless piles of laundry to wash and many other stresses of everyday parenting multiplied. These stresses, plus tabloid rumors, are the reasons John and Kate are now admitting they maybe splitting. I just do not think it’s anything new. Maybe that’s because I have a dad who grew up with a role on “Jim & Doris plus 7”, a reality that never made it to the small screen.

I emailed my dad and asked what he thought made Jim & Doris plus 7 a long-lasting relationship. His answer of “love, respect, and acceptance,” was pretty simple but probably all that needed to be said. Long before the days of television—let alone reality television—the unscripted lives of Jim & Doris with a large family did not seem all that unusual; after all Jim came from a family with ten children and Doris from a family with six children. They grew up in the same small town in north central Ohio, were hometown sweet hearts, and married when Doris was 19. For the next 65 years they would be undoubtedly committed to each other and their children until Jim passed away in 2007. My grandparents did not have any multiples, which means yes, my grandma had seven rounds of pregnancy and labor. They had all seven kids without the assistance of any fertility drugs, simply good old-fashioned Catholic values led to this large family.

I called my grandma to get her thoughts on Jon & Kate Plus 8 and her experiences being Jim & Doris plus 7. I told Grandma that I was writing a blog, and then had to explain what a blog was since my grandma is not Internet savvy. Grandma did know about Jon & Kate Plus 8; she said she had seen the show a couple of times and yes, Grandma like the rest of America, knew about their marital problems. I explained to Grandma that I wanted to know more about what it is like to raise a small flock of kids. “Oh, it was wonderful,” Grandma told me. I asked her if she thought it would be harder to have multiples or to do it one at a time, “Oh, multiples would be harder.” I teased that I thought getting all the potty training done at once was a good idea, but Grandma pointed out that she had older kids to help her. I did see her point and agreed that having live-in help could be a plus.

Jim and Doris, like many couples married during World War II, experienced separation and moving away from familiar hometowns. Jim and Doris plus one came back to Ohio after Jim’s military service ended and he returned to the family lumber company. Over the next ten years, Jim worked 6 days a week and Doris had a total of 6 children by the time she was 30. Three of those children came nearly back-to-back. While having multiples may lead to bed rest for months, when I think of my Grandma being pregnant for almost 27 out of 36 months plus caring for the children she already had, it’s enough to make my ankles swell! The last one came ten years after the next to last, and, while some may shutter at starting with diapers all over again, Grandma said it was great because the older kids were so excited for the new baby.

It is understood that 7 children can cause a lot of dirty laundry; I told Grandma that Kate had two clothes washers and two dryers to keep up with her laundry. While my twenty-something mind can only envision our modern day machines, I was shocked by the description of the laundry machine Grandma had. She told me that she had to put all the clothes through the wringer by hand and then line dry. Sorry, Kate, Grandma has points on this one and I promise to never complain about doing laundry again.

Jon and Kate sometimes had celebrity experts come to their house/television show to give them cooking lessons, free food, and even an environmentally friendly home makeover. Grandma told me that no one ever gave them free stuff like that, but she could call her groceries into the store and they would deliver them. I told Grandma that I thought that was pretty impressive, so maybe Kate had it harder if she had to go to the store. The only free vacations Jim & Doris plus 7 got were when they would camp at State Parks. Since camping does not sound like a good time to me, I am adding another check to Grandma’s column.

I wonder if Grandma ever her pictured a life without Grandpa; I was thinking of one particular time in their years together. When their youngest child was still in high school Grandpa had a very bad accident; some shocked timber fell wrong and a large piece of a tree landed on his head. I know it sounds impossible, but it did happen and he did survive. Grandma calm response, “I never doubted he would get better; he had too many people praying for him. It was a long time before he went back to work, almost a year.” Yeah, that’s right; he went back to work after a tree fell on his head and caused such damage it took a full year for him to recover. Yet, during that time Grandma still had faith that her future was with Grandpa. Helping your spouse recover from a major head injury kind of makes being on the cover of a tabloid seem a little less awful.

Jim and Doris watched all their children grow up and leave home. They eventually went on vacations together all over the world, from Germany to the Holy Land. They danced at all their children’s weddings, welcomed grandchildren and then great-grandchildren. Grandma says it was all good—both the years when it was Jim & Doris plus 7 and the years when it was just Jim and Doris. I witnessed the truest dedication to a partner when my grandma spent years caring for my grandpa during a long illness. True dedication is when you don’t get the series finale you deserve; Doris stayed by Jim’s side and never once complained about how unfair it was.

It seemed to me that Jon & Kate and Jim & Doris both have had their challenges. Multiples or individuals—having numerous children appears to be exhausting no matter how they arrive. I asked Grandma if she ever thought of divorce, “Oh no, never!” Grandma said this as if I had asked her if she ever considered trying out for American Idol. So what it made it work for Jim & Doris plus 7? “Your Grandfather was a good man; I never had to worry.” I know my grandpa would have said the same about Grandma. Grandma said that despite the physical strain of his job and the commitments he had around the home, like mowing the gigantic yard and most likely repairing the damage 7 kids did to a house, Grandpa was an active father for his children and a good husband to Doris. I did not have to ask if Grandma ever got a spa day or if Grandpa ever took a ski weekend to “get away,” but I can understand why any parent might want one.

To the television parents who have decided to let camera crews into your homes, whatever your reasons for allowing them in, those cameras will not destroy your family. What those lenses record is simply what you play out before them. People on glass screens or in glass houses should not throw stones at those cameras, as they can turn against you very quickly. The real reality is that a family of any size is hard work, and as my dad said it is love, respect, and acceptance that kept his large family strong. I have to add my own thought to that: I don’t think anyone knows the hardest or the best times until they are on the other side of them, but if you can look back at 65 years and call them all “good years” then that may just be something worth watching and, better yet, living.

These Docle & Gabbana slides are worhy of a fashion magazine. Photo by Jean Thornton

There comes a time in every woman’s life where she transitions from the pre-teen focused, glossy magazines with scribbled pink words across their covers to more adult fashion magazines.  It’s a pretty sharp transition from prom gowns to couture gowns but it is one many women dream of making some day.   Even the articles promoted on the covers seem to show the stark differences between how young teens and young women think. No longer do these young women care about how to deal with a pimple before prom; now they want to know how to have the best sex of their lives.  They stop dreaming of the perfect date and start dreaming of the perfect job and a great apartment in the city. 

Beginning when I was 12 years old I had begged my parents for copies of Teen and Seventeen as I believed they held the answer to all of life’s questions…how to apply eye liner, could you get pregnant in hot tub, and of course a plethora of quizzes to determine everything from what type of kisser I was to who my perfect celebrity date would be.   For years the teen magazines were my guides to all things that ran through my high school mind, which wasn’t a whole lot. 

And then I got my first real adult fashion magazine.  My first was Marie Claire; it was part of a get well soon gift basket from a former babysitter when I had my wisdom teeth pulled.  Since I was still in high school, anything that came from anyone in college was obliviously the coolest thing ever.  I devoured that magazine from cover to cover—lusting after runway looks, reading how to mix this year’s trends with wardrobe classics, and learning how to have an international love affair.  I was hooked and became an avid reader of Marie Claire, often daydreaming of a future in a fancy office where everyone wore black patent leather stilettos and had fabulous cocktail parties every evening.  I thought of how I would transition my “office appropriate” look to a “sultry evening” look with the flip of a scarf and cocktail ring. 

While Marie Claire has been a staple in my life since I was senior in high school, my magazine subscription has moved with me to college dorms, to small off-campus apartments, to even smaller island apartments.  All through my adult years Marie Claire has been the chic older sister I never had.  The expert on every element of style in my life, it told me what books to read, what makeup to buy, which albums to listen to, and what news stories were most important to women around the world. 

But recently I have found myself paying a little less attention to all this advice from Marie Claire, and for the first time I even let my subscription lapse.  It’s not that I don’t like the magazine anymore, but I just don’t find myself with the same time to read it.  Perhaps after all these years I have at last become somewhat of an ‘equal’ to Marie Claire.  Sure, I am not having international love affairs or flings in the break room, but I am meeting friends for cocktails after work and wearing stilettos to the office every day.

If the latest statistics about fashion magazine sales are correct, maybe others feel like I do since subscription numbers have been dropping over the last year.  The introduction of blogs and websites that will bring you fashion as fast as it happens might be making the fashion magazine…well…less trendy.  No longer is our copy of Glamour, Vogue, or W the hottest accessory for the busy woman on the go.  After all, just about everything can be downloaded onto one electronic device and thrown into your must-have bag. 

As I see the dwindling sales numbers and dropping subscriptions, I cannot help but feel a little sad.  It’s like hearing an old friend has gone to rehab.  There is a little twang of sadness as I think of what was once a significant influence in my life and now is not doing so well.  I cannot help but wonder what will become of young women if there are no glossy pages to turn and no guides on how to add a little flair to your ponytail.  This may all sound trivial to some, but these are the things that help a girl transition to womanhood in so many ways. 

Maybe the answer to helping fashion magazines survive is not adding another subscription to my bursting mailbox.  Maybe the answer is doing what someone did for me and passing along the secret world of fashion magazines to another young lady.  Then she too can learn how to mix and match seven pieces of clothing to make a month’s worth of outfits.  And maybe along the way she also will dream of professional jobs, beautiful apartments in big cities, and jetting off to another country for a romantic weekend.  Every woman needs a hip friend to guide her long to becoming a woman; sometimes the best advice comes once a month.