The Shoe Monologue

On my way home from work, I traverse a four-mile stretch of practically deserted county road. It's rare that I see more than one car (other than my own) on this stretch of road, and if I see two, it is traditional to bellow "Holy Moses, where'd all this traffic come from??"

The road is straight and deserted, and I have plenty of time to observe the flora, fauna and footwear along the side of the road. Yes, footwear. I've spotted three shoes along the side of that road, and none of them match (this does not include the pair of shoes hanging from the telephone line).

I could understand seeing a pair of old shoes abandoned along the side of the road, but why three shoes, and mismatched shoes at that? I have visions of a three-legged alien with terrible fashion sense being hit by a dump truck on that road and leaving nothing but its shoes behind. Or maybe three different one-legged men. Or maybe a traveling shoe salesman.

And why shoes? I see no hats, no socks, no shirts, no mittens, no blazers, no trousers. Just shoes. Why do shoes end up abandoned along the road and not turtleneck sweaters or cowboy hats?

I can understand the pair of shoes hung over the telephone pole. What teenager growing up in a rural area hasn't tied the shoelaces of an old pair of sneakers together and tried to toss them over a power line? The fact that I never succeeded does not mean that I never tried to leave my mark on the world in that way.

But who would intentionally abandon a shoe on the side of the road? It just doesn't make sense to me. But maybe it doesn't have to.