2025-05-03

I wrote this several years ago, so no, don't go looking for Fred.

Some of you may have seen a shoe perched majestically at the top of the hill in my front yard. If not, I’m enclosing a picture as an introduction. We named it Fred. Say hello to the people, Fred.

(He can't speak, even though he has a tongue.)

Yes, I know what you’re thinking. “You named a shoe?” Well, why not? We always name the strays that end up hanging around our house. Last fall we named the mice that set up housekeeping there, even as I tracked them down and did a Dirty Harry on their rodent rears.

One day I got home and Fred was simply – there. I live on a main street, and lots of young people (read: litterers) go by, so a certain amount of trash is expected. My neighbors have been doing renovations, and whenever a stiff wind pops up some of their waiting to be disposed of debris will take up shop around my house. Just a few days ago I found the remains of a light bulb scattered across my porch. Who knows about that? Maybe somebody had an earth-shattering idea.

But a shoe?

I have a theory about how that shoe could have gotten blown into my yard.

That’s not an object easily blown around, especially to land at the top of an embankment. No, it had to have been thrown there. If so, it was an exceptionally artistic throw, as the shoe landed upright, proudly showing to passers-by that it was high-strung.

I’m generally annoyed at litter, but in this case I confess to being rather bemused. So bemused, in fact, that I left the footwear there, wondering if the owner might show up to claim it. Maybe it was tossed there by some clownish “friend” who thought it would be funny to see his buddy stumping around in one shoe. What a heel.

But no one claimed the poor little orphan, so I felt I had to name him, and picked Fred out of thin air. How do I know it’s a male shoe? How many girls do you know who would throw away a perfectly good shoe? I rest my case.

Some girls even pick shoes right off of dead people.

Later I told my daughter that Fred could stay until lawn mowing time, and she informed me in turn that I could simply mow around it. How, she asked, could I just boot Fred? I thought she was going to sock me. (Get it?) Her passion left me tongue-tied. (Get that one?) I appreciated her sole-searching, but couldn’t build Fred his own closet -- not on my shoestring budget. (Okay, that’s enough.)

For now, Fred stays. Maybe his other half will show up, and they’ll get off on the right foot with some other owner. Hm. Come to think of it, I wonder if they’re elevens?

Oh! I just made this connection. Brought to you by: Fred Toenges Footwear.*

Pay for my future footwear here:

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