I first met him in 1965, when I rushed into his little shop to have the heels of my shoes repaired. He greeted me with a cheerful smile and instant hospitality. “You’re new in this neighborhood, aren’t you?”
Indeed, I had moved into a house at the end of the street only the week before.
“This is a fine neighborhood,” he said. “You’ll be happy here.”
I sat there with my shoes off, watching as he got ready to stitch up my shoes I’d entrusted to him. He looked sadly at the leather covering the heel. It was worn through because I had failed to have the shoes patched a month ago. I grew a little impatient, for I was rushing to meet a friend. “Please hurry,” I begged.
He looked at me over his spectacles. “Now, don’t worry. I won’t be long. This handicraft is my specialty and I want to do a good job.” He was silent a moment. “You see, I have a tradition to live up to.”
A tradition? In this modest little shop that was no different from so many other shoe-repair shops on the residential side streets of Washington? The thought seemed a bit absurd.
He must have sensed my bias, for he smiled with a gleam in his eyes as he went on. “Yes, I inherited a tradition. My father always told me, ‘Son, do the best job on every shoe that comes into the shop, and be proud of your fine work. If you work with dedication, you’ll always have happiness and money.’”
As he handed me the finished shoes, he said, “These will last a long time. I’ve used good leather.”
I left in a hurry, but I had a warm and grateful feeling. On my way home I passed the little shop again. There he was, sitting amongst his tools, still working. He saw me, and he waved and smiled, as cordial as could be. That was the beginning of our friendship, a fellowship that came to mean more and more to me as time passed.
Thereafter, we waved to each other in a friendly greeting when I passed his shop every day. At first I went in only when I had repair work to be done. Then I found myself lingering in his store or dropping in every few days, just to chat with him for the joy he would impart.
He was a tall man, bent from long years of work. What little hair he had was gray; his face was deeply lined. And, I remember best his fine dark eyes, alive with his charitable, carefree, and humorous spirit.
He was the happiest man I’ve ever known. Often, as he stood in front of his door overseeing the street, working at a pair of shoes, he sang a beautiful melody in a high, clear voice. Neighbors nicknamed him “the singing cobbler”. The neighborhood children loved him. He’d periodically pause his work to referee arguments or give out candy. He had no patience for bullying and would insist the children play fair in front of his store.
One day, I came away from my house filled with fury because of a poor job some painters had done on my house. My friend waved to me as I walked by, so I went into his shop to vent my frustration. He let me speak angrily about the poor work and carelessness of present-day workmen. “They had no pride in their work,” I said. “They just wanted to collect money for doing nothing! The undutiful attitude these days is almost a sin.”
He consoled me, saying, “There’s a lot of that kind around, but maybe we should not blame them too rashly. Maybe their parents had no pride in their work. That’s hard on a child. It keeps a child from learning what’s important.”
“What can be done about it?” I asked.
He pondered that for a minute before answering. Then he looked at me seriously. “There is only one way. Every man or woman who hasn’t inherited a prideful tradition must start building one. In this country, each of us can make our own contribution to the fabric of society, and we must endeavor to make it a good one. No matter what sort of work a person does, if they give it their best each day, they’re starting a tradition for their children to live up to. When a person amends their ways and learns to take pride in their work, a lifetime of happiness will ensue.”
I traveled for a few months on business, and shortly after my return, I walked down the street, looking forward to seeing my friend again. Yet when I arrived, I found the door closed. There was a little sign: “Call for shoes at shop next door.”
I went into the next shop, and what I heard pierced my heart. Yes, the old man had passed away. He was stricken with an infectious illness two weeks before and died two days later.
I went away with a wretched void in my heart. I would miss him, terribly. But he had left me something, an important piece of wisdom I will invariably remember: “If you have inherited a prideful tradition, you must carry it on; if you haven’t, then start building one now.”