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My mother says I have peasant feet.

Of course, I have no idea what peasant feet look like, but I'm sure mine are –they're from Polish stock. I can see an ancient grandmother, babushka on her head, humpbacked by the large sticks or wheat or some kind of crop on her back, her huge feet stomping a path through the fields. And my feet look like my mother's, so she must be right.

Ladies don’t have peasant feet. With clodhoppers, I can't be tall or statuesque, blond or elegant. Even if I came close, managed to gain four inches or lose twenty pounds, my shoes would give me away. Stubby feet don't fit into the thin, dagger sharp stilettos that can kill a wayward beau with one blow, those pointed peaks that endanger women through their sheer existence (how many twisted ankles and successful seductions happened due to a heel in a sidewalk crack?), the Sex in the City symbols of a truly hot woman.

So, when my charming mother, wielding her passive aggressive sword, plunged the "you will be never hot or sexy" remark into my thirteen year old soul, I believed her.

Later, when I read the Hobbit, I was mortified: hobbit feet sounded just like the peasant feet in my imagination. Overly large, covered in brown fur, leathery soles – I was afraid to look down after I read it, for what if my now accurately identified feet suddenly morphed into their true selves? I'd be screwed; I'd have to shave my feet along with all the other bodily parts that grew hair daily and no man would ever want me: a slightly warped female version of the Wolfman, except every day would be hair day.

Luckily, late-blooming hippie-wannabes in the late 60s and 70s wore moccasins and didn't shave; Dutch clogs and Dr. Scholl's were the fashion in the 80s and motherhood in the 90s allowed my unseemly feet to hide from the fashion critics of the world. But with motherhood came another blow – a half size. It was too much: it had taken me years to grow into reluctant acceptance of my size. In the sixth grade, my feet were rectangular black boats in a pair of lace up gillies, announcing my entrance a size or two ahead of me. At 36, I had finally grown to accept my size eight shoes, which had been feeling tight due to my pregnancy - for three years. It took my sister to point it out - "Maybe you need a bigger size?" She had a lovely sarcastic tone about her, pronounced as she stated the obvious. At her words, my hobbit feet reappeared, curly brown fur thicker than ever, soles flatter than cardboard, slapping the ground as I trod dejectedly back into the corn fields. Where was that babushka?

Mother laughed as I hoisted the bale that was my marriage; peasant feet are good for something – they can tote huge amounts of disappointment and resentment. She had given up her load long ago, and is now living happily alone, but her feet have never recovered.

I've fought back over the years – shoes with kitten heels mingle with fashionable flats and western boots. Communing with dust bunnies are the occasional black business heels, exercised for three hours at a time twice a year –conference wear. The hobbits scream in agony when I wear them, but my ancient grandmother nods approvingly – this is a small price to pay for success.

Most of the time, my size nines are happy now; they receive compliments from beaus, who see graceful, shapely feet with dainty painted nails. They still squirm at weddings and complain, but relax when I kick off my kitten heels and dance, babushka on my head, grandmother keeping time in the corner.

Ruby slippers

“Red,” Toots Steadforth blurted out, surprising herself. Whether her beer-drinking buddies were also surprised, it was too late in the day to tell. She should have said ice blue or shy violet, but she was staring down when the question was asked. “What is your favorite color?” Under the table, beneath her jeans, the pointed toes of her red shoes tapped to tune of the juke box.

And so, a chance word witnessed in a bar became Truth for awhile. Shortly after that night she bought the red summer shift and the corduroy jumper to match the shoes – a deep bluish red with a shine to them. The new redness energized her, changed people’s reactions to her. On the street, men smiled cheeky smiles, and little children turned around to watch her, as though tracking the loss of a vanishing balloon. At the bar people she barely knew would smile and wave. She smiled back and blew kisses to them, laughing like a red-wrapped starlet.

The shoes were real leather flats with wide straps fastened over the instep with Velcro. There was a woven hemp-like edging around the tops and soft spongy crepe soles. Given to Toots by her pregnant older sister whose feet had swelled, they were splendidly stretched to the point of air-walking.

She wore these cloud-like shoes everywhere, thoughtlessly, commonly, daily, before they became the center of attention.

“Ah, the girl with the Ruby Slippers,” said Rusty, not just once, but often, in his creaky-hinge tobacco-smoked voice. Rusty lived downstairs from her with Toots’ friend Lynda, who asked, “going to travel the yellow brick road?” This caused Sylvania, if she was present that day, to explode with a cackle from the belly that carried throughout the room, the whole apartment building, and half-way down the street. She doubled over with the percussion of her own laughter.

Was it just a coincidence, or did re-runs of the Wizard of Oz keep jumping from the TV screen during Toots’ Ruby Slipper days?

Did Rusty, with his red hair and beard, remind her of the lion, muttering as he did, over his vats of home-brewed beer, like a rumbling beast?

Did Lynda, with her dark hair and widow’s peak, exude an air of spell-casting mystery?

And Sylvania, with her loose layers of flowing garments and flexible stride – was she really stuffed with straw?

That new bridge over Two-Fork River was painted gold, along with the walkway and bike pass, and well…, think about it. When Toots was wearing the Ruby Slippers, the world took on a dream-like quality.

It came to a head the day of Toots’ sister’s baby shower when Toots was wrapping her present quickly, before Sis could come in the room. Sylvania held a couch cover up before Toots as she wrapped, and she said, “Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain.” With that, Sis’s little black terrier grabbed the edge of the blanket and ran off with it, exposing the heart-shape satin pillow Toots was wrapping. Just then, a fierce wind rattled the windows.

That was enough. Life was getting too weird for Toots. She retired the bright, oddly magical slippers to the top shelf of her closet and returned to her subdued attire.

Then, when she glanced down while doing her errands to nowhere special, she saw her plain brown walking shoes plodding ahead on a steady solid path. There were no twists or turns, no sudden detours. When she looked in a mirror, she could BE the beige back ground in the wallpaper. There were no freak rainbows, and she was no longer jolted by bursts of whimsy. Clearly, awake was awake and a dream was a dream a dream. It was a relief at first, and Toots remained under cover until she knew she was ready for the responsibility and the joy of the ruby slippers once again. And that is a whole ‘nother story.

The trip from the hospital took a long time. Traffic was horrible the whole way, and when we finally found the Mall, we couldn't find any street parking. The van was too long for most of the available spaces.

Mom and I left a parking garage and headed to the Smithsonian Museum. I didn't realize how many museums there were around the Mall. After passing a lot of different ones, we entered the National Museum of American History and began making our way through it.

“Mom, are you sure they're here?”

“Yes, Meg. We'll see them soon.”

I know it was hours before we entered the exhibition room. We came upon them almost by accident. They seemed to "appear" out of nowhere, surprising us both. We stopped a short distance from the display to admire them.

Spotlighted from above, they glimmered brightly. Smaller than I imagined, not as fancy as they looked on my DVD, there they were: Dorothy's ruby slippers.

“The heels look higher, don't they?”

I looked up at Mom as she nodded her head in agreement. “Look at all those sequins. And they're such a dark red.”

“The way the sequins are laid out, they look like round red fish scales. Is there such a thing as a sequin fish?”

Mom laughed and patted me on the shoulder. “If there is, I bet we could find it in one of these museums.”

We looked at the slippers quietly for a few minutes. I remembered my digital camera, pulled it out and took a few pictures.

“Mom, aren't they magic slippers?”

“Yes, that's right. Click the heels together three times saying 'There's no place like home' and you return home.”

I looked up at her again. "I wish Dad were here."

"Me, too, sweetie." She leaned down, wrapped me in both her arms and gave me a gentle hug. She unlocked the wheel chair and slowly pushed me into the next room.

LostMutt: how uncanny! I promise I haven't been using my infamous mild-meld techniques to steal your thoughts. (he-he-he, my pretty). This story is enchanting.

Likewise; what's that old saw: Great minds think alike...? :-)

OK, this was funny as hell. Now I'm wondering how you chose the moniker Otter... :-)