A Man-made Sole

I knew it had to be easier than I thought (it always is). Well, Ladies of the Letter, here is my Allegory for your reading and critiquing pleasure.



A Man-Made Sole

When Charlie woke up this morning, he took a shower, brushed his teeth slathered some gel through his sandy locks and proceeded to get dressed and ready for his big interview in a big city for a very important job.

His father had been a cobbler, making and fixing shoes for everyone in their little town. Charlie’s father knew the sizes, shapes and styles of shoes for anyone who walked or hobbled within a ten mile radius of their small town.

He was renowned for the soles he put on this hand-crafted shoes personalized for each patron. People knew the soles were good. They would last for miles and miles and years and years. Most of the time the souls outlasted the laces, the straps, any buckle and the leather, but those were all easy to fix and replace, he wanted his soles to last forever. His soles had good traction for the difficult winter months and rock-filled summer months and the mud in the other months. He made the first shoes for he wee little babies that grew and grew and grew through first step, first soccer game, first dance and first job. He made the shoes for his new neighbors whose all-boy household held tight to the college sports teams. And for the moms and dads chasing the kids and begging them to wipe their feet and clean their soles before coming in. He even made shoes for the shufflers and those who ride the motorized cards at the grocery store. He also was the man who was sure to be the one to make someone their last pair of shoe for their burial.

Charlie’s father was very well-known, very well-liked, very skilled and very willing to help where he could, but like many before him and surely many to follow, Charlie’s father was getting old and the soles on his own shoes were showing wear.

It was now Charlie’s turn to make a living, Charlie’s time to take the step into the word and fill his father’s shoes.

Charlie knew that times were changing and that big shoe stores would make it so he couldn’t follow in his father’s footsteps. He had to find a new route in his life.

When he arrived in the big city for his big interview for a very important job, he was impressed by the large buildings, the many cars and the massive amounts of people. He wondered how he would be able to live in a place with so much noise and was so busy. He passed a large shoe shop with shinny black shoes for suits, lovely sequined high-heeled shoes for ladies, and pink and blue plastic shoes for babies. “Those shoes will never last,” he thought shaking his head, “and the price is so much for shoes with poor soles. Besides, who is here to mend them when those soles break through?”

As he entered a large building with a very large sign, he met important people for his very important job—which he got. They showed him his office desk, his computer and phone and the view from his office made him dizzy as he looked at the little people that were big a minute ago and now seemed like little critters scurrying to and fro.

Soon he met lots of clients, ate lots of lunches, shook lots of hands and made lots of money. He couldn’t make it home to visit his dad and his home town once his time became money and he was very important doing very important things.

One day he was walking into his big building, took the elevator up to his high-rise office and sat at his desk with a view of all the little people down below. He sat in his chair and felt something poke the bottom of his foot. To his great astonishment, he looked to see the bottom of his shoe had a hole in the sole and his sock showed right through.

“Where is my dad when I need him now,” he thought as he took off his shoe and peered through the hole. “I can’t make it home to get this fixed!”

Hoping to manage, he put his shoe back on and went throughout his day signing papers, signing checks and signing a lease for his brand new car until--- poke. “Ouch!” he yelled as he picked up his foot to examine the hole in the sole of his shoe. “This darn hole is not going to work any more!” So off he went to the store he knew that sold shinny black shoes for men in suits and bought him a pair that were more expensive than he liked and the soles were not as strong, but at least he wouldn’t be poked and bothered since there were no holes in these soles.

These shoes were tight and not comfortable at first, he was used to the custom fit he knew before, a shoe made for him and him alone, not a shoe made for any man. The more he wore his new shoes, the more they seemed to fit. He also started to really like the way they shined and he polished them more than once a week and he knew he looked sharp. Then one day he stepped out of his leased car and walked toward the big building where he did important things and --- crack. He felt the sole of his shoe split in two. “I haven’t worn these long,” he thought as he sat down on an outside stair, “They shouldn’t be worn out like this.” He sat there, removed the shoe from his foot and looked at the crack in his sole. “Who can fix this?” He said with a shake of his head, and below the crack he saw the print, tiny and almost unseen: This is a man-made sole.

Why didn’t he know this? Why didn’t he care before? He was wearing shoes with a man-made sole and no wonder they cracked so soon!

Charlie removed his other shoe and still shaking his head, he walked to the big building that stretched high overhead. He started to run as he stepped inside and paused to deposit his man-made sole shoes in the garbage bin. He entered the elevator and went up and up—not fast enough for him. And when he entered his office he searched and searched and finally found a dusty pair of shoes with a hole in a sole that fit better on him than any other soul. With a sigh of relief he packed some things and ran down the flights and flights of stairs and stairs, ran out the front door and down more stair then down the street to a bus where he paid the driver and headed out of town. It drove and drove and finally stopped near a long road by a town that Charlie knew well.

He stepped out and started walking toward home where Charlie was soon greeted by his father, the town cobbler. With a warm embrace and a smile on Charlie's father’s face, Charlie asked his father, “Would you mend my sole, Father? I keep getting poked. I have not met another that can mend my poor sole.” And with another warm smile, Charlie’s father said, “I can mend that. Welcome home, Son. Welcome home.”