Believe me when I tell you that your finest Christmas memory may come in an unlikely place, at an unexpected time and from an improbable source. That’s what happened to me earlier this month. I was standing among the throng crowded into the Grand Foyer of the White House, and a young voice piped up: “My feet hurt!” Not a protest, nor a complaint; just a simple, unfiltered declaration of fact: “My feet hurt!” I looked down into the face of a young boy, about eight or nine, and answered, “My feet hurt too!” There in the middle of that festooned foyer, where a smiling stuffed bear drove a fire-engine-red truck, and where presidents have greeted ministers and monarchs, that boy and I bonded.
We joined together as fellow members of the League of Aching Feet and commiserated about our respective podiatric woes. His, he told me, were caused by his spotless white tennis shoes. “They’re new,” he explained, “and I haven’t had a chance to break them in.
” “They’re very nice,” I told him. He looked down at them with pride. “Yeah, they’ll be okay.
I just need to break them in ...
they’ll be fine.” Then someone called him, and he turned to leave. But just as he was about to start down the stairs to the foyer’s front door, he turned and told me, “It was good talking to you.
” “Good talking to you, too,” I smiled. Sensible boy, he left before I could tell him about my own shoes. About how I’d worn them, because they looked good with my coat, .
