The shoe tree’s lessons

My wife and I drove to Upper Michigan and Mackinac Island this summer. We’ve lived most of our lives here in the Midwest and had never been there.

We were driving along in the middle of nowhere when my wife shouts: “Stop the car!” I jammed on the brakes, afraid we were about to hit a moose or a bear or something.

“Turn around,” she directed. Then she pointed at a huge tree along the side of the road. We just stared.

Hanging from the tree, dangling from nearly every branch were hundreds and hundreds of … shoes.

No kidding. There were sandals and flip-flops, men’s shoes and women’s shoes, stiletto heels and flats, athletic shoes of every make and color.

We stood there gawking—and taking pictures—walking around the tree, checking out the looks on others drivers’ faces as they sped by. A few even stopped and gawked with us. No one had any idea why all these shoes were hanging there.

Later, at our hotel, I checked the Internet and discovered that this is a phenomenon known as—you guessed it—a “shoe tree.” There are several others around the country. This one, just north of Kaskaska, Mich., seems to be alone in the upper Midwest.

But why? No one seems to know for certain. But at least one theory connects it to something more meaningful than just throwing away old shoes.

The story goes like this: A man and woman had been shopping and had a huge fight. In anger, the man grabbed the new shoes his wife had just bought and tossed them high into a tree. Later, he realized how wrong the fight had been—and because he was the guy, how wrong he’d been. So he took a pair of his own shoes and heaved them beside his wife’s as a way of apologizing.

The couple, according to the story, were able to laugh at the stupidity of it all, and made up. Then, whenever they’d disagree, they’d return to the shoe tree and remember how things should be.

That’s because we’re a remembering people; we’ve got mementos, photos and more to connect us with things and events that are important to us.

When we arrived on Mackinac Island, I wasn’t quite ready for the amount of remembering there was.

The entire island is an exercise in remembering life before the internal combustion engine. Horses, bicycles and shoe leather are the only way to get around. (Golf carts only on the links, thank you.)

Even the island’s Catholic Church, St. Anne, is a lesson in memory. It’s one of the oldest parishes in the country, dating back to 1670 and founded by Father Jacques Marquette. It has baptismal records on file from April 1695. That’s a lot of remembering.

Our Scriptures and our faith, too, are deeply tied to memory. They remind us of a God who’s present and real and loving. Even when we’re not sure.

Memories, however, are what we make of them, and how we discover them.

If that seems a little esoteric, here’s another connection, another lesson in memory from the shoe tree.

Also hanging on that strange tree was a yellow ribbon. I also think I spotted, nearby, a pair of combat boots. I don’t presume to know the story connecting them—or even if they were connected. Certainly it calls to mind a soldier somewhere serving his—or her—country.

And I’d like to believe that in a small town up there in northern Michigan a family is remembering and waiting and preparing—and likely praying—for the safe return of a loved one.

Tom Sheridan
Editor and General Manager

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