One Shoe at a Time

“Oh, I see that Mrs. Leary was in today,” I exclaimed delightedly as I entered the store underneath the big ‘Patrick O’Toole’s Shoe Repair Shop’ sign. “Is her daughter doing any better yet?” Mr. O’Toole cut two slices of the homemade Irish Soda bread on the counter, shook his head a sad ‘no’ as he buttered the thick slices with creamy yellow butter and handed me a piece. While I ate he explained, “She was especially downcast today. Doctors don’t think she’s going to ever be able to walk again. Such sadness it is.”
It was June of 1960 and I was 10 years old and living in Passaic New Jersey. My dad had sent me to Mr. O’Toole’s shop back in February  with a pair of his damaged wing-tipped shoes to be fixed. I intended to just drop them off but instead got intrigued by some of the equipment in his shop. I asked a lot of questions and while I was in there Mrs. Leary came in with a child-size shoe in a brace and a round loaf of bread which she placed on the counter and said, “Patrick, would you mind adjusting this for me please. Little Rose just can’t manage that wobble there.” “Sure enough, Mary. Just let me get my tools,” he responded. She looked over at me anxiously and in what seemed no more than a minute, he was done. “That’ll hold her in tight. Thanks for the bread, Mary. Tastes just like me mother’s it does!” he exclaimed. She smiled broadly and left into the cold winter afternoon.
“Mr. O’Toole, I think she forgot to pay,” I helpfully pointed out. “No,” he answered, “she paid me in bread. See, her daughter got polio a few years back and needs those braces. They don’t have money for much these days, so she pays what she can.” I responded, “My grandmother did that at her store too. She made the most beautiful hats anywhere. People came from far away to buy them. But sometimes when someone really needed one and they couldn’t pay, they would pay with something else.” Then I giggled and told him the story of the live chicken Mrs. Tambores brought one time that chased my mother all through the store, out the door, and into the courtyard.
After that day through the winter and spring and into summer, I stopped in to see him every few days. He loved telling me stories of his childhood in Ireland and of his dangerous and difficult voyage to America when he was only fifteen years old. “Aye. Lucky for me I learned this skill outside of Dublin. The whole family lost everything and my father apprenticed me when I was just 12. Danny MacCarthy was a good man he was. Taught me everything.” And then Patrick O’Toole would tell me stories of the people he met and the lessons that Danny taught him. “Aye, one time a man, all raggedy and dirty, comes into his shop. I was ready to throw him out, I was, but Danny shakes his hand. ‘Mr. Connors, how are you this fine morning?’ he says to him and then continues, ‘I see you be limping a bit. Can I have the honor of fixin’ that shoe for you?’ And wouldn’t you know it, the man takes off his shoe and Danny takes care of it right there and gives it back and says, ‘thank you for coming in. See you again soon. Top o’the mornin’ to ye.’ And I turned to Danny and I asked him what that was all about. He told me Mr. Connors had been down on his luck since his wife died and slipped more and more into another world. No one could help much, but Danny says, he says to me, ‘Patrick my boy, you got to do right by the world. You got to mend the world. Mend it one shoe at a time.’ He taught me everything that man.”
I loved hearing his stories and being in his shop. Sometimes his little girl would come in from upstairs. I took to helping her with her kindergarten work. She was often coughing and tired and had missed so much of school that she was far behind. Her mother had two new babies to tend to and didn’t have much time left for Katherine. I would sit with her on little benches in the corner of the store and teach her to sound out her letters and words. Sometimes I’d come with little stories I wrote using her new vocabulary. Mr. O’Toole would look over at us delighted with his daughter’s smiles and laughter and progress. He would tell me how she looked forward to my visits. “She’s a smart one, you know. She’s going to make us proud. She’s getting stronger every day now.”
The school year was almost over and at this point in our fifth-grade classroom Mrs. Jenkins was teaching us about different careers. This posed a great difficulty for me. I had no real skill or talent that I could measure. Like Janet, who was a wonderful dancer. Or Patty whose mother made delicious homemade pasta and was teaching her that special skill. Or Ruth Ann who could add and multiply and even divide in her head! I mused about my dilemma with Mr. O’Toole that afternoon. “I have no talent that I can think of,” I told him while finishing the buttery bread. But I want to do what your Mr. Danny McCarthy said. I want to mend the world. But I have no tools,” I sighed. Just then Katherine came bounding in and our afternoon of reading –she could read easy Golden Books now—and giggling began. As I left the store later, Mr. O’Toole told me to be sure to come next week on my very last day of school for the year. He wanted me to have something.
When I walked into his store the next Monday Mr. O’Toole and his whole family were there to greet me. Katherine jumped up and down with excitement. “This is for you,” she shouted handing me a box. And beaming with pride she added, “I wrote the card all by myself!” Even the two babies were gurgling happily. Her mother hugged me and thanked me for helping out. “Katherine is so happy now. Her asthma is almost cured and she can sit and read on those days when it’s too hard to play outside. It makes my heart so pleased to see her like that.”
The note on top from Katherine said “Thank you. I Love You.” I tore the newspaper wrapping paper and string off and found a beautiful brown box. Carved on the top it said, “Sylvia’s Tools.” I opened it to reveal pencils, a pen, and some chalk. “That’s how you will mend the world, Sylvia,” he said smiling, “With stories and teaching and kindness. One shoe at a time. One shoe at a time.”

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