Married Pat Wiesinger(1939-1990) and they had two children.
"Spit Shine"
The shoe polish went on: slap-slap-slap. Why had I postponed this chore so long? Partly to avoid dirty hands and nails, ah the cleanliness fetish. But more so, the shoes were scuffed and scratched. My good doctor shoes, no longer professional. We once called them "Sunday school" shoes. My children knew theirs as "Daddy" shoes, leather, not tennis. We tried to teach them; keep up appearances, set an example, show some pride.
First, saddle soap to cleanse the leather and open the pores. Let them breathe. An old rotten rag to wipe them dry, the leather now soft and soothing. A stiff black brush will burnish the surface. The polish goes on with a small square swab, black to one pair, brown to the other. Then brush again, until a latent luster awaits the final, penultimate "spit shine". Learned this from brother Tom, remembered now and often.
Tom was and outstanding cadet and army GI, with spotless pressed uniform, brass all polished, favorite of his superiors, present and accounted for, sir. We called him Uncle Tom to distinguish him from nephew Tommy, and son, Thomas, or any other who might come along. We do dote on names. Tom is gone now, nine years, too early, before his time. Isn't right; never is.
I stalled long enough. Put on the first shoe, one foot up, poised with the shine cloth. Ready? Now spit on your finger tips-quickly to the leather, and pop that shine cloth back and forth: pop-snap-pop. Soon there will be a sparkle in the leather, a shine, a luminous luster, reflection of Tom smiling at you-and me. An image. A memory. A damp eye or swallow lump yet.
My shoes are happy. Tom is happy. So am I, and with this image, you also. Spit-slap-snap. Spit-slap-snap. Next time do not wait so long for this.
-Composed by Tom's eldest brother, Dr. Ripley Harold Hunter Jr.(2003)
"Spit Shine"
The shoe polish went on: slap-slap-slap. Why had I postponed this chore so long? Partly to avoid dirty hands and nails, ah the cleanliness fetish. But more so, the shoes were scuffed and scratched. My good doctor shoes, no longer professional. We once called them "Sunday school" shoes. My children knew theirs as "Daddy" shoes, leather, not tennis. We tried to teach them; keep up appearances, set an example, show some pride.
First, saddle soap to cleanse the leather and open the pores. Let them breathe. An old rotten rag to wipe them dry, the leather now soft and soothing. A stiff black brush will burnish the surface. The polish goes on with a small square swab, black to one pair, brown to the other. Then brush again, until a latent luster awaits the final, penultimate "spit shine". Learned this from brother Tom, remembered now and often.
Tom was and outstanding cadet and army GI, with spotless pressed uniform, brass all polished, favorite of his superiors, present and accounted for, sir. We called him Uncle Tom to distinguish him from nephew Tommy, and son, Thomas, or any other who might come along. We do dote on names. Tom is gone now, nine years, too early, before his time. Isn't right; never is.
I stalled long enough. Put on the first shoe, one foot up, poised with the shine cloth. Ready? Now spit on your finger tips-quickly to the leather, and pop that shine cloth back and forth: pop-snap-pop. Soon there will be a sparkle in the leather, a shine, a luminous luster, reflection of Tom smiling at you-and me. An image. A memory. A damp eye or swallow lump yet.
My shoes are happy. Tom is happy. So am I, and with this image, you also. Spit-slap-snap. Spit-slap-snap. Next time do not wait so long for this.
-Composed by Tom's eldest brother, Dr. Ripley Harold Hunter Jr.(2003)
Married Pat Wiesinger(1939-1990) and they had two children.
"Spit Shine"
The shoe polish went on: slap-slap-slap. Why had I postponed this chore so long? Partly to avoid dirty hands and nails, ah the cleanliness fetish. But more so, the shoes were scuffed and scratched. My good doctor shoes, no longer professional. We once called them "Sunday school" shoes. My children knew theirs as "Daddy" shoes, leather, not tennis. We tried to teach them; keep up appearances, set an example, show some pride.
First, saddle soap to cleanse the leather and open the pores. Let them breathe. An old rotten rag to wipe them dry, the leather now soft and soothing. A stiff black brush will burnish the surface. The polish goes on with a small square swab, black to one pair, brown to the other. Then brush again, until a latent luster awaits the final, penultimate "spit shine". Learned this from brother Tom, remembered now and often.
Tom was and outstanding cadet and army GI, with spotless pressed uniform, brass all polished, favorite of his superiors, present and accounted for, sir. We called him Uncle Tom to distinguish him from nephew Tommy, and son, Thomas, or any other who might come along. We do dote on names. Tom is gone now, nine years, too early, before his time. Isn't right; never is.
I stalled long enough. Put on the first shoe, one foot up, poised with the shine cloth. Ready? Now spit on your finger tips-quickly to the leather, and pop that shine cloth back and forth: pop-snap-pop. Soon there will be a sparkle in the leather, a shine, a luminous luster, reflection of Tom smiling at you-and me. An image. A memory. A damp eye or swallow lump yet.
My shoes are happy. Tom is happy. So am I, and with this image, you also. Spit-slap-snap. Spit-slap-snap. Next time do not wait so long for this.
-Composed by Tom's eldest brother, Dr. Ripley Harold Hunter Jr.(2003)
"Spit Shine"
The shoe polish went on: slap-slap-slap. Why had I postponed this chore so long? Partly to avoid dirty hands and nails, ah the cleanliness fetish. But more so, the shoes were scuffed and scratched. My good doctor shoes, no longer professional. We once called them "Sunday school" shoes. My children knew theirs as "Daddy" shoes, leather, not tennis. We tried to teach them; keep up appearances, set an example, show some pride.
First, saddle soap to cleanse the leather and open the pores. Let them breathe. An old rotten rag to wipe them dry, the leather now soft and soothing. A stiff black brush will burnish the surface. The polish goes on with a small square swab, black to one pair, brown to the other. Then brush again, until a latent luster awaits the final, penultimate "spit shine". Learned this from brother Tom, remembered now and often.
Tom was and outstanding cadet and army GI, with spotless pressed uniform, brass all polished, favorite of his superiors, present and accounted for, sir. We called him Uncle Tom to distinguish him from nephew Tommy, and son, Thomas, or any other who might come along. We do dote on names. Tom is gone now, nine years, too early, before his time. Isn't right; never is.
I stalled long enough. Put on the first shoe, one foot up, poised with the shine cloth. Ready? Now spit on your finger tips-quickly to the leather, and pop that shine cloth back and forth: pop-snap-pop. Soon there will be a sparkle in the leather, a shine, a luminous luster, reflection of Tom smiling at you-and me. An image. A memory. A damp eye or swallow lump yet.
My shoes are happy. Tom is happy. So am I, and with this image, you also. Spit-slap-snap. Spit-slap-snap. Next time do not wait so long for this.
-Composed by Tom's eldest brother, Dr. Ripley Harold Hunter Jr.(2003)
