No shoe rack necessary in Granny's closet

My Granny's love affair was divulged late last August — my sister the spectator on that steamy summer evening. Such was the heat of the moment that Sister slid her sweaty palm across her dew-drenched face, while Granny grinned despite her panty-hose, which moistly clung from her black trousered thighs to her pink-painted toe nails.

"What do you think?" Sister asked, clasping a pair of black-strapped sandals in one hand, and a similarly fashioned brown pair in the other.

Puckering her lips in a protesting pout, Granny nodded her noggin in dissapproval.

"I just can't find what I'm looking for!" Sister squabbled, returning the rejected sandals to their prolonged shelf life. Sister's spitfire was accompanied by her protruding, clenched jaw and the murmur of quite a few choice words.

It was at this moment, before God and a local shoe store full of female footwear, that Sister became a witness to Granny's tryst.

With the shimmying of black trousers and the hoist of her pant legs, Granny Virgie signaling downward at her feet. Sister gasped and then faltered a few paces. Of most significance, Sister shielded her eyes from Granny's shimmering, shuffling shoes.

Granny's bronze sandals.

Slipping on sunglasses to shield their shine, Sister leaned towards the snazzy sandals that donned Granny's feet.

"You can wear bronze sandals with anything," Granny explained.

Sister opted for a tube of lipgloss and SPF 100 sun block at the next-door dollar store. And following the drive home, after delivering Granny to her doorstep, Sister stopped by the Eaves home place to report the evening's events to my family.

"You look a bit red in the face," I said to Sister, placing the backside of my hand over her forehead, checking for fever, only to realize her flush was actually a burn.

"It was the bronze sandals!" Sister cried, as I clipped a thick sprig from Mama's aloe plant, applying the slippery goo to her sandal-burned face.

Mama interrupted the conversation with concern, instructing us daughters to carefully apply sun block to all exposed flesh prior to any future Granny visits.

Ours was a fear-induced obedience.

Granny's bronze sandals became everyday attire. Grocery shopping, hospital volunteering, weed-pulling — Granny sashayed in her glittering bronze sandals. Granny even wore the sparkling sandals while baking biscuits and frying fatback for our Saturday morning breakfasts.

The Eaves sisters likewise sported protective sun gear, while Granny's fair skin trasformed into a golden brown — or was it bronze?

Perhaps it was autumn's end that signaled the demise of Granny's love affair with the glimmering bronze sandals. Because following a few chilly days, I don't recall seeing them any more. And although cold days have now departed, and spring's return has heralded warm, sandal-wearing weather, Granny's bronze sandals remain out of sight.

Only days ago, as I strolled the aisles of a local shoe store, I was seduced by luring whispers from a nearby shelf. I reached for the enticer, sighing at its hypnotic touch. And as my sole slipped into the fold of the first sparkling sandal, I beamed with the euphoria of true love.

"Bronze goes with everything," said the sales clerk as I slid my gladiator-styled sandals onto the check-out counter and reached for my credit card.

"So I've been told," I smiled, until finally noticing the price tag.