In My Mother’s Shoes
Does inheriting her fabulous footwear collection make following in Nancy Daly’s footsteps any easier?
Linda
Daly
Photo by Alex Hoerner
In May 2007, my mom was diagnosed with stage-four pancreatic cancer. Even though everyone pretty much knew there wouldn’t be a happy ending, talk skipped quickly over death and dying and centered on her shoes.
Nancy Daly’s shoes were legendary, her collection vast. Maybe not Imelda Marcos vast, but what Imelda had in quantity, my mom had in quality. Louboutin, Chanel, Prada, Dior, Choo were just some of the A-list residents of her closet—complete with feathers, sculpted heels, animal skins and fabulous stones. All colors and elevations were welcomed. So speculation was rampant as to where they would end up. Little did anyone know, those shoes were meant for me.
This came as a shock to those who knew my mother and me. I am the Birkenstock member of the family, the one with dirty unpainted fingernails, who talks too much about the virtues of greening one’s life. Boots, clogs and flip-flops are my footwear of choice. Nevertheless, when asked after my mom’s funeral where her collection would go, I plainly answered, “Into my closet.”
“What will you do with them?” I heard, implying my propensity for sensible shoes would negate any need for heels.
“I suppose I’ll have to dress up more.”
“Ooh, your mom would love that!” people said, implying there was hope for me yet.
My mother’s love of shoes came early. When I asked her high school girlfriends what they remembered, Irene said, “When we were freshmen at St. Cecilia’s in Tenafly, New Jersey, she wore taps, which drove the nuns crazy. At 14, she was making her own fashion statement—of course, she also had those beautiful legs to show off her shoes to perfection.”
Another, Joan, said, “Your mom came to a Sunday-night dance with black slingbacks. We raced the next day to Miles Shoes. We thought we looked great with our poodle skirts and slingbacks. Secretly, we called them our sexy shoes. Even in 1956, she was a trendsetter.”
Yes, that was my mom. Impeccable attire and amazing shoes were her uniform of choice when she fought the city council and the L.A. County Board of Supervisors on behalf of our city’s forgotten kids. She was a driving force for establishing the L.A. County Commission for Children & Families, the L.A. County Family Preservation Program, the L.A. County Children’s Planning Council and the L.A. Commission on Children, Youth and Their Families.
She sat on the President’s National Commission for Children in the first Bush Administration and worked with two other administrations on policy issues relating to foster care and adoption. She founded two Los Angeles–based children’s charities—United Friends of the Children and Children’s Action Network. She was the board chair of LACMA and the Getty House Foundation and served on the boards of the L.A. Opera and the W.M. Keck Foundation. She has her name on the Founder’s Room at Disney Hall. As children’s activist Carol Biondi said at her memorial, she moved mountains in her Manolos .
My mother’s and my shoes fit our philanthropic personalities. She was the policy person...I am the grass roots. She advocated for foster-children’s rights while wearing Prada heels...I went off to eastern Chad in New Balance hiking boots to help Darfur refugees. Before her cancer diagnosis, we had planned to meet philanthropically in the middle. She and I had returned from Rwanda and Kenya, having seen some of the worst poverty and HIV effects imaginable. We were going to join forces and raise lots of awareness and money for women and children.
My mother was excited about joining me on my path after the years I’d spent following hers. We were in the worst slum in Nairobi taking part in HIV prevention programs, and my mom—incredibly moved yet ill prepared footwear wise—admitted her white designer sneakers were no match for the bacteria-laden mud. But in classic Nancy style, to lighten the moment she said, “I’m sure Prada makes a nice hiking boot for next time.”
My mom always intended her shoes to be part of her legacy to me. And I guess, even without knowing it, I have been preparing for them most of my life. I borrowed her shoes through high school, college and adulthood and even wore them when I married a year ago. Nancy never stopped buying shoes. In fact, weeks before she died, two pairs of Bottega Venetas were delivered, with heels so high she could barely stand in them in her frail state. She just looked at me, smiled and said, “Well, someday they’ll be yours.”
Upon her death, there were close to 250 pairs of shoes in her closet. I asked all of the women attending her funeral to come in their finest footwear. What better way to celebrate my mom? One wore jewel-encrusted Diors, another gray flannel peep-toe Louboutins not found in the States. There were stacked-heel Pradas, slingback Manolos and a pair of drop-dead Gucci boots. I wore the fancy Oscar de la Renta ones with the feathers. At her memorial a few weeks later, I delivered the eulogy in the black Bottegas she never got to wear.
When asked how I would fill her shoes, only one word came to mind: impossible. It’s not what my mother would have wanted. She celebrated me regardless of my inability to stand in four-inch heels. She loved that I found my own passion in her field, and she loved even more that I was involved on my terms.
The day before she died, she and I discussed how important our relationship was to both of us. We had a mutual-admiration society, introducing each other at events. I joked that she’d love me more if I put on makeup and dressed up a bit. I knew it could not be further from the truth, since she cherished who I had become and deflected any talk that it was all because of her.
Her huge closet was her center. It was her safe zone, where the girls in the family gathered. Her friends hung out there, and her granddaughters tried on shoes, dresses, makeup and jewelry. Her closet is comforting. In fact, I sat there waiting for inspiration to write this article. My daughter, only 10, picked out a pair of shoes, and now when she’s feeling sad, she puts on a dress and walks around in them.
As long as I have access to the contents of my mother’s closet, she is never far. Her shoes are now in my own much smaller closet, yet they’re available for me to slip into whenever I want. If I need strength, I know the perfect Manolos. If I want to feel more beautiful, I have the Bottegas. But I always remember where my mom ends and I begin. Wearing her shoes but walking my own path is exactly what my mother wanted to give me.LINDA DALY is more active in the community than she has time for. She relishes bossing everyone around in her LA magazine blog, Pretty in Green.
Categories: Personal Space
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I really enjoyed this story. Thank you for sharing! It made me want to see a picture of your Mother wearing some of her fancy shoes...
Posted by: Gary Houghton | 03/13/2010 at 08:10 AM
I loved your article Linda. I did not know your mother well, but enough to always say hello and exchange a few words if we ran into each other...often in the first floor shoes at Barneys:) She was a lovely and accomplished woman, and as much as she loved her shoes, you and your daughter are her proud legacy.
Sincerely,
Donna Colwell
Posted by: Donna B. Colwell | 03/13/2010 at 10:27 AM
Well, I can see how broken up you are. Condolences. But what's really sad is seeing such an artistic collection go to some BS hippie cliche.
Sigh.
Posted by: Kayla | 03/15/2010 at 11:14 AM
Thank you so much for this! What a blessing to read your words this morning, both as a mom and as a daughter. :)
Posted by: Beth | 03/15/2010 at 11:23 AM
My condolences. I think your mom is very proud and you were very much your mother's daughter. Your lucky that you can wear your moms shoes, my daughter is six foot tall and I am five foot, no shoe sharing there.
Posted by: tamashanter | 03/15/2010 at 01:57 PM
This is such a great story, thank you for sharing.
Posted by: Cher | 03/16/2010 at 08:34 PM
Thanks for sharing that, Linda, and may your mother RIP.
As for you, Kayla, I find your comments disgusting. You personally attack someone whom you obviously dislike over an article about a loved one's death? To use your own words, seeing that is really sad. My condolences to your sense of decency.
Sigh.
Posted by: Alexander Kim | 03/17/2010 at 07:26 AM
Wonderful article.
Your mother would be proud!
I certainly enjoyed reading it.
Posted by: stephanie | 03/17/2010 at 08:14 AM
This is one of the most inspiring tributes I have ever read. The photo, the message and the deep love moved me.
Namaste....
Posted by: Myra J | 03/17/2010 at 08:40 AM
I , too , have a similar story.
I am filmmaker doing a film called
SOLE SISTERS, stories about
women's lives as told through
their shoes. It is dedicated to my
Mom, Sylvia Salzman, who
did not win her battle with
pancreatic cancer, but is now
dancing in heaven with gorgeous
red shoes. I'd love to connect
to you and other women who have
stories. www.mediaprojects.org,
cynfilm@mediaprojects.org
Posted by: Cynthia Salzman Mondell | 03/17/2010 at 09:31 AM
GREAT STORY may your MOM RIP!!!!
Posted by: beau | 03/17/2010 at 07:41 PM
Thank you for sharing. My mother passed away on 2/8/10, and I can relate. My mother was a humble, hard working woman...the most important woman in my life. I'm having trouble overcoming the loss. Thanks again.
Posted by: claudia | 03/17/2010 at 08:09 PM
Wear your finest footwear!!!!
Linda I can barely type this through my tears, your mother would be so proud of you and so am I.
Posted by: Cheryl L | 03/18/2010 at 06:13 AM
Linda - My condolences. Wonderful article, especially for those of us who've lost our mothers. I think their are a lot of people who are also fans of the artistic/sculpture quality of high fashion shoes. Ever consider a coffee table photo book? Technically some may consider it a fashion book but really those shoes are modern art.
Posted by: Matt Harwood | 03/18/2010 at 07:24 AM
Hi; could hardly finish the story. My fantastic, flamboyant mom died several years ago after a valiant fight with ovarian cancer. My daughters; her granddaughters and I wear her shoes and clothes all the time, laughing and missing her all the while.
What a legacy for you. God bless.
Posted by: Jeannie | 03/18/2010 at 07:24 AM
Hi! really enjoyed the article. I lost my mother 8 years ago so I understand where your commingf rom. What a lovely legacy she left for you and you can leave to your children. Would have really enjoyed to see a photo of your mother.
Posted by: Dawn ( Philadelphia PA) | 03/18/2010 at 08:29 AM
I loved this story, and have shared it with my inner circle this week. Walk tall & proud in your Mother's shoes, for she is proud of you!
Posted by: Tripp Jones | 03/19/2010 at 08:15 PM
What a wonderful tribute to your mother. I really enjoyed reading your story. SL
Posted by: Stacy Lynn | 03/22/2010 at 10:44 AM
You touched my heart. I lost my mother last May 8th and have sat in her closet and cried while surrounded by her shoes and clothes. She was elegant like your mother. I'll wear her clothes, but shoes are too small for me or my daughter and I can't bear to give them away.
My condolences to you and everyone who wrote about their mothers. It helps me to read about you and all the others who have lost a dear mother and somehow go on.
Posted by: Marcia Kamph | 03/28/2010 at 05:07 PM
What a beautiful story. How fortunate that you could both appreciate each other for who you were.
Posted by: Jeannine | 03/30/2010 at 12:52 PM
That, was a lovely tribute. And I am someone who loves shoes, so much. They are the only things I collect, and they vary in heel heights and range from dressy to work horse practical.
Only in recent years have I spent serious money on shoes and boots. I have no idea who I'd bequeath my shoes to. Most likely a charity...
Great footwear...like the right hat, makes and gives a full heart.
And from your article, you and your mother are certainly women of very full hearts.
Posted by: Regan DuCasse | 04/02/2010 at 11:41 AM
Thank you Linda for sharing such wonderful memories of your mother and yoursefl. My mother passed away in 1998 and she loved beautiful shoes too. Your thoughts brought back many memories of my own. Thank you again for the beautiful memories of Nancy Daly and you.
Posted by: Betty | 04/19/2010 at 02:01 PM
Kayla on 15th March, how can you be such a twat? I have never ever seen such an uncaring, irresponsible unfeeling response to an article that was intended to praise the deceased. My God. I sincerely hope that when you suffer a loss that you do not meet with such unpleasantness as yours. You are frankly beyond belief.
Anyway, back to the point of the article. A very moving tribute and such a personal one. It was very moving.
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Posted by: Blova Accutron | 08/08/2010 at 06:49 PM
Really impressive story dear. I think your mom shoes are more beautiful and much passionate to wear.
You are right quantity doesn't matter when your quality is of top class. Ladies are more attracted towards the design and quality of the shoe you wear. Do tell me where I can see more of your mom shoes.
Thanks
Avelina
http://www.dailytrader.com
Posted by: Avelina | 09/03/2010 at 12:04 AM
This is really an amazing story about your mother. I feel very happy to read this beautiful article. This is my desire that i want to see your mom.
http://www.wholesalepages.co.uk/
Posted by: Clara James | 09/06/2010 at 01:09 AM
You may remenber the three proverbs:
Misfortune tests the sincerity of friends.
No cross, no crown.
Nobody's enemy but his own.
One man's fault is another man's lesson.
Posted by: Nike Air Max95 | 10/28/2010 at 05:31 PM
You may remenber the four proverbs:
Promise is debt.
Proverbs are the daughters of daily experience.
Pull the chestnut out of fire.
Put the cart before the horse.
Posted by: Nike Air Max Hyperdunk 2010 | 11/01/2010 at 05:36 PM
Hi; could hardly finish the story
Posted by: Hermes Birkin | 12/15/2010 at 11:04 PM