Like Carrie Bradshaw and Imelda Marcos, I have a not-so-secret weakness for shoes. My budget (and body) might not allow for Christian Louboutin or Jimmy Choo sky-high heels, but somehow my closet is still packed to the brim. Let’s just say I may not spend like a fashion icon — but I sure collect like one. So when I heard that 96-year-old Shirley Mosinger had a shoe collection that puts mine to shame — over 200 pairs! — I had to see it with my own eyes. And last Sunday, I did.
Yes, it’s true. Shirley owns 206 pairs of shoes. But here’s the tie-up: most all fit neatly inside an 8-foot-tall glass-front curio cabinet in the corner of her bedroom. How is that possible, you ask?
Because every one is miniature. Tiny. Adorably shrunken. And each has its own story — a teeny heel with a big personality — just like Shirley, who was named a Jewish Light Unsung Hero in 2016 for her volunteerism.
“It all began coincidentally,” Shirley said, rewinding to 1978, when she chaired the National Council of Jewish Women’s Couturier Sale. She was picking up a donation of men’s clothes from a woman named Mrs. Dan Rosenberg — her first name lost to time — when the two got to chatting.
“She asked me, ‘What does your husband do?’” Shirley recalled. “I told her, ‘He’s in the shoe business.’”
In fact, shoes weren’t just Harold Mosinger’s business — they ran in the family. He worked in the wholesale shoe business with his father, Gus, in St. Louis. And Shirley’s own father, Sol Yudelson, owned a chain of retail shoe stores in Atlanta. As it turned out, Gus and Sol knew each other from before Shirley was born — the shoe world, it seems, is tighter than a pair of strappy sandals.
“As I was getting ready to leave (Rosenberg’s) house,” Shirley said, “she handed me three little shoes.”
Just like that, they became No. 1, No. 2 and No. 3 — the founding members of what would become a truly fabulous (and delightfully miniature) collection.
Soon, more tiny shoes began marching in — mostly as gifts from family and friends. Each time a new one arrived, Shirley carefully taped a number to the sole, then logged it in a looseleaf ledger with the precision of a museum curator: date received, name of the giver and where it came from.
Today, she has shoes from 23 countries, including far-flung locales like Lithuania, Korea, Israel, Peru, China, Japan, Hungary — even Belize. And the shoes themselves? They’re a marvel of variety, creativity and, occasionally, confusion. Some double as household items — a flower vase, Scotch tape dispenser, pie server, clock, thermometer, salt-and-pepper shakers, cigarette lighter, butter dish, even an oil lamp. Others are delicate works of art made from pewter, bone china, sterling silver, glass, clay, amber, sea shells, ivory, crocheted thread and yes — a literal lump of coal. There’s even a pair of cherry red pumps that double as erasers.
One especially rare shoe commemorates the 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis, which Shirley’s sister found at an antique sale in Atlanta. Apparently, history shows up in the most unexpected shoe boxes.
Shirley said that as much as she treasures her shoe collection — and all the joy and memories tucked inside it — she’s officially done collecting. And though she has stepped off the path, another family member is already following in her footsteps.
Her 8-year-old great-granddaughter Mara — one of Shirley’s 13 “greats” — was so enchanted by her curio cabinet of miniature wonders, she started a collection of her own. “She went to Scotland and found a shoe exactly like one I had,” said Shirley. “It was a little bedroom slipper.”
Now, Shirley finds herself on the hunt — not for her, but for Mara. “I get her ones for her birthday and Hanukkah,” she said. “I find them in antique stores. Isn’t that ridiculous? But I don’t want to give mine away. Most of mine were gifts from people I cared about, and a lot of them have passed away.”
They may be gone, but their memories live on in tiny tokens from all over the world, each with its own little footprint in Shirley’s heart.
