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The Conchologist and the Shoemaker

The Conchologist and the Shoemaker The blind professor's no stranger to seeing the terrain rocky, his boots wearing thin— what needs repair he says, the tear hidden in the sole below my arch, skin splittng where my feet have swelled with age, the right close around my ankle, the fit less good, the smell somehow off, more of sweat than leather. Tell me—might the odor come from coast sea moss? The shoemaker strokes his chin and looks him in the eye that glisters, says I’ll stretch them half a size and smooth the saddle—the smell? the shells you study, sir, their sea-salt film. The blind professor rubs his fingers on the boot's hide, traces seams and cuts, searches for clues, says look, this torn selvage reaches inside like sea-worn specimens of Conus litteratus. The shoemaker slides his thumb over instep sweat-polished warm, feels the last, sees scratches don't penetrate the surface. Wax will seal the skin, he says, amber cream. But the color, asks the blind professor, will it change? I love the deep tone, I see it's faded some. I want the glow of sea, no yellowing no darkening, no premature unraveling, the stitches strong as gut for climbing over algae-slicked rocks at low tide where I look for mollusks— The shoemaker leans closer, grins This cut of boot, grooved on the sole, grips sand. The blind professor rubs his palms together, laughs I need my boots in every weather— so much I’ve yet to see with these hands. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png JAMA American Medical Association

The Conchologist and the Shoemaker

Schwartz, Edythe Haendel
JAMA , Volume 296 (9) – Sep 6, 2006
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The Conchologist and the Shoemaker

Abstract

The blind professor's no stranger to seeing the terrain rocky, his boots wearing thin— what needs repair he says, the tear hidden in the sole below my arch, skin splittng where my feet have swelled with age, the right close around my ankle, the fit less good, the smell somehow off, more of sweat than leather. Tell me—might the odor come from coast sea moss? The shoemaker strokes his chin and looks him in the eye that glisters, says I’ll stretch them half a size and...
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Publisher
American Medical Association
Copyright
Copyright © 2006 American Medical Association. All Rights Reserved.
ISSN
0098-7484
eISSN
1538-3598
DOI
10.1001/jama.296.9.1039
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

The blind professor's no stranger to seeing the terrain rocky, his boots wearing thin— what needs repair he says, the tear hidden in the sole below my arch, skin splittng where my feet have swelled with age, the right close around my ankle, the fit less good, the smell somehow off, more of sweat than leather. Tell me—might the odor come from coast sea moss? The shoemaker strokes his chin and looks him in the eye that glisters, says I’ll stretch them half a size and smooth the saddle—the smell? the shells you study, sir, their sea-salt film. The blind professor rubs his fingers on the boot's hide, traces seams and cuts, searches for clues, says look, this torn selvage reaches inside like sea-worn specimens of Conus litteratus. The shoemaker slides his thumb over instep sweat-polished warm, feels the last, sees scratches don't penetrate the surface. Wax will seal the skin, he says, amber cream. But the color, asks the blind professor, will it change? I love the deep tone, I see it's faded some. I want the glow of sea, no yellowing no darkening, no premature unraveling, the stitches strong as gut for climbing over algae-slicked rocks at low tide where I look for mollusks— The shoemaker leans closer, grins This cut of boot, grooved on the sole, grips sand. The blind professor rubs his palms together, laughs I need my boots in every weather— so much I’ve yet to see with these hands.

Journal

JAMA – American Medical Association

Published: Sep 6, 2006

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