He's Got Sole
DINUBA, Calif. — Three signs in the short alley point the way to Pete's Shoe Repair. When you walk in the door there's Pete Hodian, 80, wearing a bright yellow hat that says "Pete's Shoe Repair," leaving no doubt that you found the place.
"He just about doesn't go anywhere without that hat," says Al Baird, 82. "It's advertising."
Baird is one of the guys who drop by most days to talk about the world while Hodian fixes shoes. There's also Jack Kezerian, 83, Hodian's next-door neighbor, and Morrie Jimenez, 75, who, because he's a retired mailman, knows everyone in town and tells good stories. They're the regulars. In addition there's a cast of revolving characters, which in this case shall be known by their shoes: the middle-aged woman who wants her high heels sawed shorter; the truck driver who needs new heels on his work boots; the grandmother whose church pumps need to be resoled.
They all believe in keeping things in good repair. They're not much for buying things not worth fixing.
"It's better to have a few nice things than a whole bunch of junk," says Virginia Rodriguez, 58, a retired hairdresser picking up an expensive Coach shoulder bag. Pete fixed the strap.
There are not too many shoe repair shops around anymore. Pete's is the only one in Dinuba, Calif., or in the neighboring small towns — the nearest is in Selma, Calif., 11 miles away. But in these troubled times, when a lot of people are feeling the gnaw of money worries, an ethos of carefully weighed worth, ingenuity and conservation can be found in this little repair shop.
"Always remember there are other things more important than money," says Hodian. "Poor people come in to have their shoes fixed, I don't charge them. But they don't forget me. They bring cookies, fruit, something. You have to trust one another."
He's been repairing shoes for more than 50 years. When the money from shoe repair started running thin, Pete moved his downtown Dinuba shop to this shed behind his house, where he's been a dozen years.
Every morning he makes coffee in an ancient coffee maker by filling a spray paint can cap with grounds and using 10 cups of water. ("It's the perfect measurement. Makes real good coffee," he says.)
He fills a dish with candy.
"What people remember is the candy," he says. "I still remember the old shoe repairman who gave out candy when I was a kid."
He gives his dachshund, Sassy, a couple of treats. The kind she likes best are big and he doesn't want her to get fat. So he uses a bandsaw to cut them in half. He devised a special dog-treat sized guide for the cutting.
Hodian knows all about improvising and making things stretch.
In his house, he has a photograph of himself and two friends working in the grape fields when they were young boys during the Depression. They're ragged. Hodian is wearing a cap that's cocked at the same angle as the hat he wears now.
"We knew poverty. It was hard. You never forget it," he says.
He recalls a day his mother served soup — again, it was all they could afford — and his stepfather swiped his bowl off the table, sending it splattering.
"He just couldn't take it anymore. He was so disappointed with soup, with his life, with not being able to give us more."
Hodian lived in more comfort as an adult, thanks largely to his late wife, Pat, and her uncanny knack for successfully playing the stock market.
"She was a wonderful woman. I wouldn't have had half what I have if not for her," he says.
