The Cobbler

The other day my son asked me if I knew a good cobbler. I had to think for a minute. Did he mean a dessert? No, he meant a shoemaker. An old man that had a store that smelled of rubber cement. The kind of store that was in every neighborhood when I was younger. The shops always looked the same. They were dark and small and had tons of old shoes sitting on the floor and in the back. There was the wooden shoe that was attached upside down to his worktable. You brought in old broken shoes and they came out shiny and new. It was a spa for shoes. They were rejuvenated. When I moved into this neighborhood thirty years ago, there were three shoemakers. Now there are none. My son needed a new rivet on a leather case and only an old time shoemaker has the rivet machine. I will do a search for the closest cobbler. Somehow I think that there will be no items to match my search.