The Old Shoe Box
written by: Rosella Sims
As she walked through the door, an old shoebox tucked under her arm created excitement, filling every cell in my body.
My French Grandmother, a lovely, elegant lady with salt and pepper hair wrapped neatly on top of her head, depicting a gray crown, was filled with memories that elevated her beauty.
On occasions, which came often when I was young, I slept in her spare bedroom. This room was her room, not the room she slept in, not the room she sewed in, not the room she worked in, but the room where she kept her greatest treasures. A room that was always ready to please her.
Her closet was filled with old ball gowns. Beautiful frocks that had been part of her youth imaginings, not have the means to afford them. Gowns that ignited her soul, as her mind led her on dance floors where elegant ladies and masterful men would so gracefully glide.
As an adult, she found a way to make her dreams come true by working at the nearest secondhand store, St. Vincent de Paul, owned by the faith she practiced religiously every morning and every night. She spoke softly to Mother Mary, her closest friend, lifting her beads reverently, kissing them as she prayed her heart’s longings to her aloud. On some days, her worries so consumed her that she would wear the beads around her neck. Her faith brought her hope. She started every day religiously, by going to church. Humbly kneeling in the pew, her Rosary wrapped around her hand. Reverently lifting it to her lips, she would meet her savior with a faithful kiss, escaping her worry for an hour or so. She felt safe surrounded by these walls.
But on weekdays, her imagination moved to fantasy, bringing her life. She would go through hundreds of boxes as they came through the doors of St. Vincent’s, uncovering bundles of what many would call worn discards, but to her, new possibilities. She paid pennies for dresses here, often way too large for her petite body. But her senses and talents were keen about such things. In her early years, she had developed skills that helped her daydreams come to life. She, a French Seamstress now, had natural talent and possessed the gift of vision. She would just look at a garment and see its potential. Then, using her most valued tool, her ripper, she would simply take it apart and fit it to her body, tailoring it perfectly.
A large, long mirror hung in her room, where many moments were spent admiring and picturing the dances where she would present her new Cinderella garment.
In this room, across from the closet, sat a large old wooden four-drawer dresser, filled to overflowing with five-and-dime jewelry. There were pop beads in every color, earrings with artificial diamonds, rubies, and pearls with a simple clip to adorn her ears, bracelets, and brooches, matching them all. These were all gathered from the same source as her ball gowns. A used vanity with an Ivory brush, comb, and mirror sat next to the bed. Every night I was with her, she would tuck me into the tiny twin, overstuffed with warm flannels and a blanket she crafted from threads spun after shearing and carding her sheep’s wool. She had owned farmland in Minnesota, now a memory her heart still longed for. After gently securing me in, she would turn the chair to face the mirror of her vanity, watching her reflection. She removed the one pin, allowing her hair to cascade down over her shoulders. Like water just released from a dam, it spilled beautifully, covering them, gently landing on her mid-back. Gingerly, she would take her treasured set of Ivory, comb and brush, first rubbing in her VO-5, careful to squirt out just a spot in the middle of her palm, a cream she used to tame her hair’s natural curl. Sitting there, she would brush and comb for what seemed like hours. I watched her in silence as my heart felt every stroke from the fine tools she treasured.
Early in the week, she opened the closet door wide that held her treasured creations. Here she picked her pleasure of the week, adorned it with just the right jewelry and just the right shoes. She would hang her choice on a wire with a loop that she had carefully crafted and hung from the ceiling in her creative way. Jewelry to match on top of her dresser, sitting on an Ivory Tray, slightly browned from time, and the perfect shoes to match next to her vanity in the old shoe box.
Money was not in her past, nor did she acquire much in all her years, but what her hands were capable of coins could never satisfy in a child’s heart.
Her garden overflowed with abundant healthy vegetables saved from any poisons, as she called them. She prided herself on knowing the natural ways to keep them from bugs or decay. Her food wasn’t fancy, but always grown and cooked with love and care. When looking in her freezer, we often found extras like a Cool Whip container filled with one-dollar bills. She knew how to save pennies. The fragrance of love always loomed through the air as warm cookie smells permeated everything. On her small kitchen table, a fresh gallon of whole milk, bought that day, from a farm close by, with its cream still intact, floating on top, skimming the paper lid that held in the nectar.
As I grew older, as things do in life, they change. The old shoe box that once held shoes now held more. The box that once charmed her now delighted me with gifts of love, right out of her oven, freshly baked and warmed in memories of love and childhood.
- The Old Shoe Box - May 22, 2026
- The French Warbride - January 30, 2026
