The GUS Tree

 Shortly after my dog passed away on July 1, 2020, his likeness appeared on a tree. I should say his licheness as a fungal version of our beloved family pet had mystically materialized onto the bark. It wasn’t like an algae blob that kind of looked like a dog shape if you squinted hard enough or closed one eye or looked through the phone camera.  No, this was a canine apparition, a paranormal pooch so strikingly similar to our sweet pup it looked as if woodland nymphs had spray painted his portrait onto the dogwood. It was unmistakably, inexplicably, heartbreakingly Gus. 

The summer of 2020 had already been a strange and surreal season. My husband and I decamped to upstate New York from the Upper West Side. We weren’t running toward the country so much as running away from the city. Renting a “Tranquility Barn” on Airbnb seemed like the ideal escape from the epicenter of the global pandemic. Before Covid, the owners of the barn had hosted yoga and meditation retreats there. Now they hosted a couple of anxious, middle-aged Manhattanites and our 12 ½ year-old Havanese. 

We’d been in the barn a month when Gus passed away peacefully on a sunny summer morning. And I mean really peacefully. He collapsed on a pink meditation cushion and died suddenly after his off-leash walk along a quiet, tree-lined country road. 

Without Gus, my husband and I continued to do our twice daily walks. It was a hard habit to break. One evening, as we ambled along Schoolhouse Road, the gravel crunching beneath our feet, I glanced at a group of trees and noticed a phantom pup staring back at me. Gus? The otherwise amorphous algae had transformed into a beautiful portrait of our dog on the trunk of a tree. I looked away at the road and then back at the tree to make sure I really saw it. Yep, Gus was still there. 

David's head was in his phone so he didn’t see it, and I was too stunned to say anything. Plus I was worried he wouldn’t see what I saw. In our partnership, I’ve always been the West Coast woo woo who believes in the power of vision boards, journaling and mantras. David is the practical, semi-agnostic former federal prosecutor who plays his cards closer to Blackjack than Tarot.

“My wife’s from California '' is his frequent refrain and I was certain this would be another one of those "CA Crazy" moments. But it was too magical for him to miss.

“David,” I said, “Do you see anything on that tree?” 

Without hesitation, my cynical, non-believing, rational husband yelled “Gus!” We ran over to the tree and wrapped our arms around its trunk. We patted Gus' lichen head, kissed his algae paws and cried as we told him how much we missed him. And we began to heal that deep wound left by his sudden passing. I took lots of photos in case it really was a grief-induced hallucination, a mirage that would vanish with the setting summer sun. When we got back to the barn, I texted a photo of the Gus Tree to our Airbnb host and his simple reply said it all. 

“Holy shit,” he wrote. “That’s a miracle”

NICE SHOES

My four-inch gladiator stilettos clicked unsteadily along the concrete walkway. It had been only ten minutes since my innocent feet had been locked into their expensive pedi-prisons and already a rebellion was brewing.

"Flip flops! Flip flops," my bunions screamed as arrows of pain shot through my toes.  A bead of sweat settled on my upper lip as a white-haired waiter dressed in black tie approached with a tray of cool relief.

"Sparkling water?" he asked. Instead of making eye contact, he was looking down toward my feet. I followed his gaze to make sure there wasn't a lizard or bug skittering under my towering heels.  

He looked up and said, "Nice shoes," which was an unexpected yet entirely appropriate welcome to the 2009 Footwear News CEO Summit, a sort of shoes-a-palooza for industry leaders. For the next 36 hours, several hundred attendees would mix and mingle at the pool, bar, beach, gym and grand ballroom of the Four Seasons Palm Beach to exchange ideas and information about every aspect of the footwear biz. From design and manufacturing to sales and marketing to cleaning and recycling and much, much more, it would be all shoes all the time. 

As Executive Director of Marketing for LUCKY, "the magazine about shopping," I had been invited to the Summit, along with the Publisher, to share proprietary research on "The Alpha Shoppers," a group of recession-proof consumers the magazine had been closely monitoring. We'd also be introducing and demonstrating a shoe-shopping app that LUCKY had recently launched. 

But first - theVIP cocktail party. 

Glass in hand and Tom Ford sunglasses on, I took a lap around the patio past clusters of well-dressed, well-heeled Summit-goers until I spotted a familiar face: Eran Cohen, the CMO of Payless Shoe Source and one of LUCKY's advertisers. He was chatting animatedly with an older, flame-haired woman wearing a black tank mini dress, spiked leather belt and chunky biker bracelet - definitely more East Village than West Palm. 

"Patty!" Eran said leaning in for an air kiss on both cheeks. "Do you know Pat? She's doing a collection for us this fall."

"Hello," I said trying to appear nonchalant as I realized this punk rock party guest was Patricia Fucking Field!!!! Style icon. Costume designer for Sex and The City and Devil Wears Prada. Former owner of a downtown boutique where I'd purchased my first wig in 1990 (during my Dee-Lite phase.) 

"Nice to meet you," she said cooly extending her hand adorned with an iPhone-sized cocktail ring. She gave me a quick, not-so-subtle, sunglasses-to-shoes once over as she took a sip of her drink.  I did the same and gasped audibly when my eyes reached her shoes.  

OMG! The Dior Extreme Gladiator Platform!  

This was not just footwear; it was art. This was the shoe that broke the internet, sparking millions of Google searches after SJP wore them throughout the first Sex & the City film and spawning dozens of knock-off versions (including the Calvin Klein pair I was regrettably wearing that night.)

Nice meeting you, I started to say but all that came out was "Nice shoes."  

The next morning, humbled by my defeat in the gladiator arena, I brought out the big guns - a pair of denim Azzedine Alaïa slingback, peep-toe platforms. At almost six-feet tall and rocking a white linen DVF pantsuit,  I felt invincible as I strode to the stage of the grand ballroom to deliver my presentation. The editor of Footwear News welcomed me to the podium and, as he stepped aside, he looked down and whispered, "Nice shoes." 

That evening, I came back down to Earth with a pair of jeweled, open-toe, low-heel Loeffler Randall sandals for a reception celebrating the 10th Anniversary of Zappos, the online shoe retailer whose slogan is "Happiness in a Box." In the elevator on the way to the party, I noticed a man checking me out below the knees. Here we go again, I thought as I waited for him to comment on my footwear.  Instead he commented on my foot. 

"You've got a serious bunion there," he said. "You should look into orthotics." 

On the final morning, I put on my "flying shoes" -  a worn-in pair of red Steve Madden ballet flats - since I'd be going straight to the airport after breakfast.  As I stood on the buffet line, I noticed a short man dressed in jeans and a baseball cap looking at my feet (as literally everyone else did during my stay in Palm Beach.) Then I recognized him from his picture in the Summit program - it was Steve Madden himself! 

"Nice shoes," he said with a proud smile. "Nice shoes."