YOUR SHOES SAY A LOT ABOUT YOU. The sign was obviously handmade. Lettered with black shoe dye on an old shoebox lid, it stood upright in the window of Joe Mazzotta's shoe-repair shop on the streetcar line just beyond the North Side. I was 12 years old and naively believed the sign was Joe's original idea. I also thought it was the closest shoe dye had ever come to pure wisdom.

John F. Waldron, a retired Pittsburgh advertising writer, lives in Ocala, Fla., (jjwaldo@webtv.net). This article was reprinted with the permission of Newsweek, where it originally appeared as a My Turn column.

My first thought about Joe's statement was how it divided the kids whose fathers were working steadily from those whose weren't. Shoes tell that story quite plainly. When I thought of classmates who had good shoes but never cleaned them, that said something about them, too.

My dad, being a clergyman, owned black dress shoes, two pairs of them. He shined them often, putting one foot up at a time on the hickory stool in his study and buffing away. He wore moccasins instead of slippers at home and they, too, were spotless, if not shiny.

On Sunday mornings, I began to pay attention to the shoes of regular churchgoers and saw definite parallels between their shoes and their characters. The women who wore a different hat every Sunday had just as many pairs of shoes to match each one. They were fussy, and perhaps a bit frivolous. The retired mailman wore the same shoes to church that he'd worn in his many years of walking his route. Perhaps he was sentimental about the time when what he did in those shoes was of vital importance to children awaiting birthday cards from Grandma and widows who might not have seen anyone but him the whole day long. The lawyer's shoes were as shiny as his brand-new Buick, and I could imagine that in the courtroom he would be just as polished.

In our house, the decision to have our shoes repaired was made by our mother, but only after consultation with Joe. "Good morning, Joe," she'd say. "Will you kindly take a look at these shoes and give me your professional opinion?" Joe almost always suggested fixing them, unless the shoes had become too small, and then, with earnest concern, he'd say, "I can't do nothing about the way them five kids is growing."

I loved going into Joe's shop. It was a grown-up place: noisy, dangerous and filled with heady smells and, often, the sounds of Pirate baseball on the radio.

Joe's machinery was painted bright red with green accent stripes. It whirred and thumped as Joe slowly turned and stitched a new leather sole on an old upper about to be born again. Smooth, whining circular-brush machines were strangely reassuring. I adored the aromas of new leather and banana-oil glue, machine grease and sole dressings. Dozens of pairs of fixed shoes were bagged, ticketed and stacked against the wall, awaiting pickup. He was a ruthless perfectionist, and was as proud of his work as his customers were to wear it. When he presented repaired shoes to a customer, he'd say "Look! Just like new, you see?"

I had deep admiration for Joe's neatness and craftsmanship, and my respect for quality shoe repairmen continues today, but I've learned that guys like Joe are hard to find. Still, most towns have at least one and, like Joe, most will also shine them up for you if you're willing to sit for a spell.

Joe moved his shop to a different neighborhood after I went to college. When I returned, he had already gone, and I never saw him again. I admit that I'm not a very rewarding customer for my current cobbler. I wear a lot of disposable tennis and running shoes. However, I still own five good pairs of shoes, three of which have been repaired. All of them have been in my closet for more than 15 years.

They are well-made, timelessly styled men's shoes: black dress shoes, brown cordovans and casual loafers. The decision to wear my white bucks is usually a troubling dilemma because they are remarkably old. Still, once or twice a year, on insufferably hot days, I trot them out for my old pals to fuss over and to give my grandchildren something to laugh about.

So what do my shoes say about me? They say that when I find a pair I like, I hang on to them like a grimy crab. They say that I value quality, and I believe something worth buying should always be something worth fixing. They say that I value a hard day's work and the feeling of accomplishment that comes with it. They say that I'm always aware of how people perceive me by how I choose to present myself. Mostly, they probably say that I'm sentimental. Not only do my shoes say a lot about me, they also say a lot about Joe.