I had one of those finds in Salvation Army a couple of years ago, a brand new pair of slippers obviously donated by an unhappy Christmas giftee in January. The most gorgeous pair of slippers I’d ever seen at the remarkably high price (for Sally Anne I mean, get a grip!) of $5.00. I wore them night and day, they’ve travelled six times across Canada with me and once to Europe. The soles are so thick and good and strong I could walk outside, hell I could do work outside, climb up to my clothes-line stage, run across to the beach, pick up some fire/driftwood. The most serious pair (goodbye silly pink fluffies) I’d ever owned. In my life. Dark grey so they’d never show a scuff, some classy those slippers.
Last week, the heartbreak began. I was out in the bit of snow we had (subsequently gone) picking up the daily newspaper and my toes felt wet.
I sat down in front of the fire to examine the slippers. And there it was, a split between sole and upper. 730 days they’ve been worn. They owe me nothing. So much joy for .006849 cents (sorry, that’s the accountant in me) per day.
So in the past I would have put out word that hey, Mama needs a new pair of slippers for Xmas. But we don’t do Xmas anymore. And this was a bit of an emergency.
So today, I get these gorgeous sheepskins above, dark brown, warm as toast. Good, thick, no nonsense soles on ‘em. We won’t talk price it being a gift ‘n all, albeit to myself.
And this is it. I bring them home. I put them on. I admire them, my feet are toasty. And then I go to Grayzies, who’ve served me daily for all that time. I want to cry. I want to keep them, repair them, maybe bronze them, I know I can’t, maybe they’ve got another couple of weeks in them? How can I do this to them. Yes, I can. No, I can’t. Yes, I can. There, they’re in the garbage.
And so help me, two hours later and I so want to haul them out. And I do, to take this picture for posterity:
