The Summer of Sandals

A young relative recently graduated from middle school, and I was stumped as to what kind of gift might be suitable. I am not great at gift-giving, being borderline phobic about shopping and not being a craft-advantaged person who can whip up quirky home-made items that people would not immediately regift or donate to a rummage sale.

Not having children myself, I fell back on the rather iffy rule of thumb: What was I really into at that age?

The first difficulty was remembering that far back. And then, as with an unfamiliar time machine, there was the challenge of landing my memory in exactly the right era; was that junior high or high school? The memory that came up first in my search was this: the excitement of buying my first pair of sandals.

I must have been about 15 years old. The Summer of Love had just happened (or was just happening?) a few miles away. But for us, sealed off in our Japanese-American family in the fog-shrouded Avenues (the Richmond District of San Francisco), it may as well have been taking place in Tahiti. A mere 20 or so years earlier, my parents had returned to San Francisco from World War II (my mother, from internment camp in Topaz, Utah, and my dad, from the U.S. Army) with basically nothing, to raise a family. In 1961 (right after JFK’s election), my dad bought a house in the Outer Richmond for $28,000. Paying down the mortgage and feeding a family of six meant economies in many areas, and I grew up (the youngest child) dressed in my sisters’ hand-downs. There was little opportunity (and therefore little need) to develop or exercise my own taste or sense of style – in fact, I avoided dissatisfaction and frustration by transcending such desires. The hand-downs never extended to shoes, but even there, on occasional family shopping expeditions, those who needed new shoes got their own saddle shoes or white Oxfords, sneakers, or an occasional loafer. Shoes needed to be sturdy and last a long time. So we never had anything as frivolous as sandals. Also, there was that little matter of the climate in the Richmond District. The year-round Arctic chill was NOT conducive to bare feet.

I don’t remember what brought me downtown that day (I must have been looking for someone’s birthday present). I was by myself. On the spur of the moment, I went down to the basement of Woolworth’s, at the Corner of Powell and Market. There, piled on a table, were sandals. I found a pair of dark maroon vinyl sandals with flat soles and many straps. They were $2.49 (or was it $1.49?) – about three months of allowance — and fit perfectly. I bought them, and remember wearing them everywhere – usually with pantdresses (home-made), which were all the rage then. Now, thinking about dark maroon vinyl sandals with no arch support, I shudder. But I loved those sandals, I think mostly because 1) they were SANDALS, and 2) I picked them and bought them myself.

Which is not to say that I should get sandals for my young relative. And certainly not dark maroon vinyl ones from the basement of Woolworth’s (long gone). A rule of thumb that is 50 years out of date is probably not the best guideline when selecting a gift for a 2017 teen who has two working parents and a house with a swimming pool, and who probably picks out her own clothes. And why risk giving something horribly age-inappropriate? (I remember once receiving a Bobbsey Twins novel when I was reading Leon Uris, for example.) So a check it will be – times about 20 for inflation.