A Letter to John Hose & his son, active from roughly 1730–1797
Dear John…and son,
Human civilization can often be measured by what it chooses to repair.
And perhaps no humble object has walked beside humanity more faithfully than the shoe.
Across mud roads, factory floors, battlefields, cobblestones, sidewalks, dance halls, school corridors, and lonely midnight walks home…
footwear has quietly carried the weight of American history itself.
And there you stood, John Hose and son, craftsmen of leather and labor, living in a world where shoes were not disposable accessories but essential survival tools built carefully by hand.
In 1776, American footwear was primarily handmade by skilled cordwainers using leather, wooden forms, awls, knives, waxed thread, and astonishing patience.
And to modern feet, colonial shoes would feel deeply strange.
Most shoes were “straight-lasted,” meaning there was no distinct left or right shoe.
Both shoes were identical.
Americans simply swapped feet periodically to distribute wear evenly.
Somewhere, an orthopedic surgeon just fainted.
Shoes in Revolutionary America emphasized durability more than comfort:
sturdy leather,
low heels,
buckles,
heavy stitching,
and practical construction for walking rough roads and surviving harsh conditions.
Comfort existed…
but modern sneaker culture had not yet descended from the heavens.
And importantly, footwear production itself reflected highly specialized labor.
A “cordwainer” made new shoes from fresh leather.
A “cobbler” repaired old shoes.
The distinction mattered enough that in some places cobblers were legally forbidden from making new shoes at all.
Even labor possessed boundaries.
Shoemaking in 1776 involved multiple steps and specialists:
the “clicker” cut leather pieces,
the “closer” stitched uppers,
the “maker” assembled the shoe,
and the “ragger” finished it.
Even before industrial factories fully emerged, labor itself was already becoming increasingly segmented.
And shoes carried political meaning too. 🇺🇸👞
Before the Revolution, many colonists imported footwear from Britain. But by 1776, wearing American-made goods increasingly became an act of patriotic resistance.
Imagine rebellion stitched directly beneath your feet.
Meanwhile Revolutionary soldiers marched through war in low-quarter leather shoes that often wore out rapidly under brutal conditions.
Entire armies struggled constantly with footwear shortages.
The Revolution was fought not only with muskets and ideals…
but with blisters.
Then the 19th century transformed American footwear forever.
Industrialization entered the shoe trade with unstoppable force.
Early in the century, shoemaking still revolved around artisans working inside small workshops, often attached to homes. Massachusetts towns like Lynn became major centers of production.
But by the mid-1800s, machines increasingly replaced handmade methods:
the sewing machine for leather uppers,
the Blake stitching machine,
mechanized cutting systems,
factory assembly lines.
Shoes became industrial products.
Tiny “ten-footer” workshops gave way to massive factories producing thousands upon thousands of pairs annually.
America industrialized one sole at a time.
And like so many American transformations, this change carried both liberation and loss.
Mass production dramatically lowered prices and expanded access to decent footwear. Ordinary workers could increasingly afford shoes that earlier generations might have struggled to purchase.
That mattered enormously.
But artisans also lost autonomy.
The shoemaker who once crafted an entire shoe by hand increasingly became:
a machine operator,
a repetitive laborer,
a replaceable factory worker.
The rhythm of craftsmanship slowly yielded to the rhythm of industrial capitalism.
And from those tensions emerged some of America’s earliest labor struggles and worker movements.
Even shoes helped teach America how to argue about labor, wages, mechanization, and dignity.
By the late 19th century, footwear fashion exploded in variety:
button-up women’s shoes,
high-topped boots,
work boots,
formal shoes,
brogans for laborers and soldiers.
Shoes increasingly communicated:
class,
gender,
profession,
wealth,
and social identity.
The feet became another stage for self-presentation.
Then came the 20th century…
and the neighborhood cobbler entered his golden age.
By the 1930s, America contained roughly 120,000 shoe repair shops.
Many were operated by Italian and Greek immigrants working in small neighborhood storefronts thick with the smell of leather, glue, polish, and machine oil.
Cobblers repaired:
heels,
soles,
stitching,
zippers,
boots,
work shoes,
children’s shoes.
Shoes were expected to age.
To wear down.
To be restored.
People repaired things because they often could not afford replacement.
During the Great Depression and World War II, repair culture became essential. Leather shortages and rationing forced Americans to extend the life of footwear repeatedly.
A single pair of shoes might survive years through careful maintenance and repeated resoling.
The cobbler shop became more than commerce.
It became neighborhood continuity:
conversation,
routine,
trust,
maintenance,
care.
And perhaps there is something emotionally beautiful about repair itself.
A cobbler does not merely fix shoes.
He quietly refuses to surrender useful things to time.
But by the late 20th century, repair culture began collapsing beneath the weight of mass production and disposable consumerism.
Synthetic materials replaced durable leather.
Cheap imports flooded stores.
Fast fashion accelerated.
Eventually many shoes became cheaper to replace than repair.
And so cobbler shops disappeared one by one.
From over 100,000 shops in the early 20th century…
to fewer than 3,500 by 2025.
An entire relationship between Americans and their possessions quietly changed.
Earlier Americans expected objects to age with them.
Modern Americans increasingly expect objects to be discarded before aging at all.
And perhaps shoes reveal something larger about modern civilization itself.
Not only shoes.
Furniture.
Appliances.
Communities.
Relationships.
Attention spans.
Repair itself became unfashionable.
And yet…
something fascinating happened in the 21st century.
The cobbler began returning.
Not fully.
Not universally.
But visibly.
Modern “shoe healers” and restoration artists now specialize in:
luxury shoes,
Goodyear-welted boots,
designer handbags,
and especially sneaker restoration.
Yes, modern Americans now mail expensive sneakers across the country to artisans who lovingly resurrect them for social media audiences of millions.
Civilization is magnificent and absurd simultaneously.
Platforms like TikTok and Instagram helped modern cobblers find entirely new audiences through mesmerizing repair videos:
deep cleaning,
repainting,
restitching,
sole replacement,
luxury restoration.
Ancient craftsmanship survived by entering the algorithm.
And beneath the entertainment lives something meaningful:
a growing desire for durability, sustainability, and “slow fashion” in a world drowning in disposable products.
Modern consumers increasingly rediscover the beauty of maintaining well-made things rather than endlessly replacing them.
Perhaps that instinct reflects something deeply human.
We repair what matters to us.
John, if you could walk through America in 2026, you would surely stand astonished watching:
athletic shoes selling for thousands of dollars,
factories producing millions of nearly disposable pairs annually,
luxury sneaker restoration studios livestreaming repairs online,
workers commuting in cushioned running shoes softer than colonial pillows,
and old cobblers quietly preserving a nearly vanished art form beside buzzing modern cities.
But We suspect you would still recognize something timeless beneath all the rubber, branding, and neon-colored soles.
Human beings still walk through life searching for things sturdy enough to carry them forward.
And perhaps civilizations reveal themselves partly through what they choose to repair…
and what they choose to throw away.
With buckles, blisters, factory smoke, sneaker restorations, and one species forever trying to keep beloved things walking a little longer,
—The Radical Left👞🖤
And dear reader, maybe the deeper question after 250 years is: when we stride through life on shoes that carry history, culture, and labor, what does it mean to preserve rather than discard?
Is repair merely a task – or a meditation, an act of respect, a rebellion against disposability?
As factories churn out millions of sneakers, and social media celebrates restoration, how do we honor the care, patience, and artistry that once defined every step?
And in a world of fleeting trends and mass production, how do we decide which things – and which values – deserve to be mended, maintained, and carried forward rather than abandoned to the landfill of forgetfulness?