Going through grade school in the 1960’s was a wonderful time in my life. I can’t think of much, if anything, I would change during my years at James Giles Elementary School. The friends I made and teachers I had are burned into my mind. True, over the past 40 to 50 years some memories have faded and some things have been forgotten entirely. However, I’m sure we all have certain events from our formative years that stick with us.
I was reminded of one such incident while looking at Facebook today. Some former classmates were discussing our old school and it jogged a very vivid memory. It was around 1967 – 68. I was a seventh grader with a lot on my mind. One of the main things that concerned me at the time was trying to act cool. Figuring out how to do that was almost a full time job for most boys of that age because being naturally cool didn’t come easy. You had to look for an edge. I found mine in Cuban heeled shoes and cleats.
Back then the same as today, the start of school was a time for buying clothes, shoes, and supplies. Somehow (to this day I still can’t believe it) I was able to convince my parents into allowing me to get Cuban heeled shoes that year. For those of you who don’t know what these are, you should Google them. To be brief, these shoes were distinguished by the high thick heel associated with them. After putting them on you appeared about two inches taller and they made every seventh grader who wore them feel like a bad ass.
But sometime during that school year something must have happened which made me feel not so bad assy anymore and I realized that I needed to kick my image up a notch. In my mind the only way to do that was to add a pair of cleats to my Cuban heels.
Cleats came in two styles, horseshoe, which looked exactly like you would think. A piece of metal shaped like a horses shoe which got nailed on to the bottom of the heels of your shoe. The practical purpose was to prevent the heel from being worn down, but the coolness factor of having these was off the chart. The other cleat was kind of like a crescent shape. Not as cool but still made a great clicking sound on the sidewalk. They still made a statement. “Hey, look at me, I’ve got cleats. I may not look like it but I’m way cool!”
Mom didn’t want me to get them, thought people would think I was some sort of “Greaser” or something. (Look that one up also if you have to) But dad convinced her that with how I went through shoes, it wouldn’t be a bad idea, so off to Thom Mcan we went. Once there I grabbed the first set of horseshoe cleats I could get my hands on and handed them to my dad. “No, the crescent ones.” he said. “But dad!!” Now my father was a terrific nonverbal communicator. He had various looks that could speak volumes. The particular look he gave me this time said, “Son, we’re very close to leaving the store with no cleats at all.” I understood and grabbed the crescent shaped cleats.
That night dad put my shoes in a vice, pounded the cleats into the heels and the next morning I happily clicked my way to James Giles Elementary.
As the bell rang and I lined up with my classmates to enter the school, I began to get nervous. Something didn’t seem right. Something kept gnawing at me. Approximately three steps into the building I realized what it was as my teacher pulled me out of line and said, “Mr. Massaro, please go down to the janitors room and have him take the cleats off of your shoes. You know the rules, they’ll damage the floors.” I began to say “But!!” She just looked at me. Apparently nonverbal communication was quite popular in the 60’s and so I headed down to the janitors room.
I sat sadly as Mr. Merkle, the janitor, put my shoes in his vice and ripped out the cleats along with my heart.
That night I didn’t even try to hide what had happened. When my dad came home from work I just handed him the cleats and explained the whole story. “Did you know about this rule?” he asked. “I think I remember hearing something about it.” I answered.
Now here’s one of the differences between 1967 and today. My dad didn’t call the local news station to report the “injustice” done to his poor little boy. He didn’t even call the school to demand payment of the now mangled and unusable cleats. What he did was deduct the cost from my allowance.
And mom? The one who didn’t approve of the cleats in the first place? Well she just looked at my dad and I and said nothing. She didn’t have to.