I’m fortunate to live in one of those urban neighborhoods that has its very own cobbler.
A couple of times a year – spring and fall – I bring in a bunch o’ shoes for new heels, and for the polish-up that Ares throws in for free. He does a great job, and I’m hoping he can help me out with my upcoming shoe extravaganza.
As luck (and aging) would have it, my foot seems to have pushed up half a size in the last year or so.
It seems colossally unfair that someone who has a long foot to begin with – I was wearing a 10 – has to acquire even longer feet in her old age. But so be it. (My feet have also widened a bit, but this is something of a blessing. I no longer have to scrounge around the web looking for AAAA width, as I can now fit comfortably into most AA’s, which are far more common.)
So, I’ll be asking Ares if he can stretch a few pairs of shoes out for me. This is assuming that a cobbler can lengthen a shoe, not just widen it.
Anyway, Ares is an older guy. Not much of a conversationalist, but I have got it out of him that he’s an Armenian immigrant. As yet, there’s no sign that he’s got an apprentice up his sleeve. But if and when Ares hangs up his awl, I can always go to Santacross, which is a fabulous cobbler just a bit further out of my way.
Ah, one of the great joys of city life is that there are still folks who’ll mend your shoes around.
I actually love visiting the shoe repair shop, just for the shoe-polish smell of it. Close my eyes and I’m back at McEachern’s in Webster Square Worcester, neighborhood cobbler of my childhood.
Mr. McEachern – generally pronounced, at least in Worcester,* Mc-geck-rin, accent on the geck, but sometimes pronounced Mc-urchin – was, like Ares, an immigrant. He was quite tall (at least to a kid), quite old (at least to a kid) and, at least in my recall, always wore a pinstriped navy wool suit with a buttoned-up shirt with no tie, and a scally cap. He could have stepped right off the set as an extra in The Quiet Man.
In addition to repairing shoes, Mr. McEachern sold work boots, men’s rubbers, and sneakers. I always wore PF Flyers as a kid, rather than Keds, because that was the brand that McEachern’s carried.
Not that Mr. McEachern drove to his customers to pick up shoes– my guess is that he probably didn’t even drive; he lived pretty near his shop – but he came to mind when I read an article on Boston.com a few days ago about a Boston cobbler who makes house calls.
Unlike Ares and Mr. McEachern, George Triantafillidis isn’t an immigrant. But his father was, and his father ran a shoe repair shop for decades.
Like many working-man immigrants, John Triantafillidis wanted his son to be a college boy, and George started out studying architecture.
But the lure of the shoe repair shop – where, of course, of course – he’d worked as a kid, was too much for George, and in 2001, when his father retired, he took over the business.
In 2007, his landlord asked him to vacate the premises – must have needed that 91 square feet for something mighty lucrative and mighty important. Which didn’t stop George.
He figured he could fix shoes at home, in the basement — at 91 square feet, the shop wasn’t any bigger — but he had to get the shoes somehow. So he printed business cards with his phone number, handed them out to his regulars, and started offering free pickup and dropoff.
When George started out in the house-call shoe biz, he couldn’t understand how he was acquiring new customers. He didn’t advertise and, since he was working out of his own basement, he didn’t have a storefront to attract passers-by in the ‘hood. But awareness of George was growing, thanks to word-of-mouse.
At first George was baffled by the spike in business. An infrequent Internet browser, he had never heard of Yelp. When he learned, by asking new customers, that his business had been reviewed on the website, his first concern was that he would be billed. “I called them up and said, ‘Sorry to bother you, but I don’t want to be liable for charges,’ and they explained that it was free,’’ he said.
Not that I’ll be abandoning Ares any time soon. And not that I don’t have plenty of other options in walking distance. But I love the idea of a cobbler who makes house calls. (Even though I would absolutely miss the wonderful shoe repair shop smell.) And you’ve got a love a guy who loves his calling.
“It’s a dirty job, but you have your quiet, and you’re not cooped up,’’ he said. “I let luck take over and it worked out well.’’
Quiet. Not cooped up. Luck taking over. Working out well.
Hmmmm. Absent the dirty fingernails, George could be talking about my work.
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*Where, in my day, McCarthy was pronounced McCarty, and McGrath was pronounced McGrah.
3 comments:
Kath and I were talking about shoes tonight, how when we were kids they were very expensive, and no one had more than a few of them. So they were worth repairing.
They were also important signals of your financial and social status. People looked at what you had on your feet. If you weren't doing well enough to keep your shoes in good shape, you were "down in the heels." Would anyone notice that today?
I remember growing up in Charlestown, the cobbler and the smell of the shop, the dusty shoes in the window. In those days, people were more apt to have their shoes repaired and a free spit & polish was thrown in as well.
I've seen so many women wear heels that don't have or lost the tips. I always think either they never heard of a cobbler or they think no one will notice the sound those shoes make without the tips. LOL
A great story once again!!
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