The only assistance one might receive at Big Box Shoe Outlet comes from the teenage cashiers chewing gum, who likely couldn’t make change without the aid of a register. The managers are conspicuously absent, likely avoiding parents and caregivers who might have inquiries. My children tend to choose shoes that are excessively vibrant, the sleekest in appearance, or those that they believe their peers will be sporting. I find myself boxing the purchases and carrying them to the register, where I will reluctantly make the transaction.
I detest this experience because it starkly contrasts with the joy of back-to-school shoe shopping I remember from my childhood. In the 1980s, my grandparents would take us to Johnson’s Shoe Emporium, a charming hour’s drive from our small town. There, Mr. Johnson had been selling shoes since World War II. He had a few amiable clerks trained personally to operate the shoe sizer, a shiny, oddly shaped device with sliding levers to ensure proper fit.
These clerks showed genuine interest in our upcoming school year: Were we looking forward to gym class? Let us show you our newest athletic model and see how it feels. Often, Mr. Johnson himself would assist us, perched on one of the stools in the store, which featured a rubber-treaded ramp at the front. His gray hair and warm smile were reminiscent of a favorite uncle, as he tied shoes without looking, engaging us in conversation. “Does that feel right? Go ahead and walk around in them.”
Selecting shoes took about an hour for my sister and me, but it was an enjoyable experience. I distinctly remember one trip where I left with striking Lone Ranger running shoes, silvery with the hero’s face on each side. The show, which had enjoyed a resurgence during the Reagan years, was proudly displayed in cursive blue font around the shoe’s mouth. I ran so fervently in them that the face of the Lone Ranger gradually faded from view, leaving only a masked silhouette.
Sadly, stores like Johnson’s no longer exist in my area. My children will not have the pleasure of a smiling salesperson to remember, nor will they feel the cool slide of the shoe sizer against their socked feet. The shoes we purchase will likely wear out by December, just in time for holiday sales. Nevertheless, a part of me insists on maintaining this tradition—back-to-school shoe shopping is an essential rite of passage, regardless of the lackluster customer service we encounter.
The site where Johnson’s once thrived is now a trendy hair salon. When I passed by recently, it was difficult to discern what was happening inside—there were poorly painted images of women’s hairstyles on the windows, along with posters for upcoming concerts and local boxing events. One sign even advertised “palm readings,” making it hard to know precisely what they were offering. I didn’t feel inclined to venture inside.
In the grand scheme of things, shoes may seem trivial compared to the pressing educational issues we face today. With Common Core standards, standardized testing, and teacher certification debates dominating discussions, my children’s shoe choices should likely be of less concern.
Yet, I can’t help but reminisce about a time when retail was about more than just a transaction. It was about connection, where genuine leather scents filled the air, and you left with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Thus, I bid farewell to Johnson’s and stores like it. The bittersweet season of back-to-school shopping has arrived once more. Hi-ho, Silver, away.
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In summary, the experience of shoe shopping has evolved significantly over the years, losing the personal touch and joy that once defined it. Despite the changes, the tradition remains important as families navigate the back-to-school season.