When I say "when she was taken," I mean that the shoes were put on her, then she taken by wheelchair to the car, driven to Aunt E's house, taken by wheelchair inside, and sat where she wanted to sit. Then the shoes were taken off, so that she could be more comfortable.
She had Parkinsons and was largely immobile by that time. So when she died, the shoes were far to much like new to be thrown out. By communal consent, or maybe just because my feet were the same size, I was given her last shoes. I wasn't broke at the time, but I had been recently, and I had been raised by the people who considered it a family duty to be frugal and see that someone got the use out of those shoes. Even if I hadn't had a recent memory of scrimping and pinching, it would have felt perfectly right.
As you can see, I got the full use from them. In honor of Grandma and in honor of my thrifty relatives, I wore them until they wore out. They were yardwork shoes after one sole came lose and had to be duct taped. Then another pair of shoes descended to yardwork status. No one needs two sets of yardwork shoes.
So I entered the phase of guilt. Do I throw it out, and feel guilty about throwing out Grandma's shoes. Or do I not throw it out, and feel guilty for having an extra pair of ugly shoes taking up space in my small closet. (Throwing out the better pair of worn shoes wasn't an option.)
So I took a picture. To remember. And it worked. I could throw the shoes away. And now I've written about it, which is even better.
