Stepping into a historical mystery
When an electrician spotted an object under attic floorboards in the 168-year-old Workman House, he thought it might be a piece of cardboard or, worse, a desiccated mouse.
But what Kirk Steinke found inside the City of Industry landmark was actually an old shoe.
In fact, four old shoes — none matching — all worn by ladies.
“I couldn’t believe it,” Steinke said.
In more than four decades of delving into the innards of structures, he’d encountered troves of doorknobs, old newspapers, the occasional rodent “and flasks that men hide from women.” But no footwear.
The discovery, however, was not the stuff of a “Cold Case” episode. There was no evidence of a crime.
But the story behind the tiny boots — about size 3 — was still a mystery, one that hasn’t been solved since their December 2008 discovery.
Subsequent research, however, has produced a possible explanation.
And it calls to mind the movie title “The Devil Wears Prada.”
A volunteer at the Homestead Museum, which oversees the Workman House, remembered reading about an old custom of concealing shoes in dwellings.
Superstitious residents believed that footwear positioned near a door, window or fireplace would ward off “bad luck, witches, the devil or other nefarious elements,” according to Paul Spitzzeri, Homestead’s collections manager.
The Workman House shoes were near a doorway.
An Internet search led to the Northampton Museum in England, which maintains a record of some 2,000 hidden-shoe findings, mostly from Europe, as well as some samples.
In olden times, shoes bore a special meaning, and not just to fashionistas.
“Unlike other items of clothing, shoes retain the shape of the wearer’s body — showing the foot shape, the fit of the shoe and even foot deformities,” wrote Northampton’s Denise Dixon-Smith. “Because of this, many people think that shoes contain animism, or the spirit of the wearer.”
Folks also hid other items in their dwellings for their protection, including cat carcasses because — as cat critics like to point out — felines “are traditionally associated with witches,” Dixon-Smith wrote.
Other stashed-away objects included jars filled with urine, bent pins and toenails. (If that didn’t keep away the devil ...)
The Workman House, currently under restoration, was the residence of members of the pioneer Workman family from 1842 through the 1920s.
The property later housed a boys’ military school and a convalescent home before it was purchased by the city in 1963.
A Los Angeles archaeological firm, Greenwood and Associates, dated the shoes to the late 19th century.
On the homestead’s website, Spitzzeri noted that a bachelor lived in the house in the 1880s and seemed an unlikely suspect.
But, in 1888, John Temple, the grandson of original owner William Workman, moved into the house “and may well have built several rooms in the previously unfinished attic.”
Perhaps, speculated Spitzzeri, the elegant, lace-up shoes were placed by his wife, Anita Davoust, who was born in France.
“What seems like a European tradition may have made its way here,” he said.
Besides, he said, “women tend to have greater emotional attachment and interest in shoes than men.”
One study found that only one-fifth of the shoes found concealed in buildings belonged to men.
Steinke, the electrician, suspects that the attic may have been a bedroom for the couple’s children. So perhaps their parents wanted good-luck charms nearby.
For now, the crumbling Workman shoes are being kept in storage under controlled temperature and humidity conditions.
But they will be available for a brief viewing Sunday during four afternoon “Behind the Scenes” tours conducted by the Homestead Museum.
And, next year, when the Workman House’s restoration is due to be complete, the shoes may be placed in display cases.
Spitzzeri is impressed that the leather footwear survived captivity behind the Workman floorboards.
“I’m not sure our shoes would have been able to withstand that,” he said.
Oddly enough, soon after Steinke’s discovery, the electrician found a concealed shoe — a man’s — from about the same period at another landmark in the City of Industry, the Rowland House.
Steinke’s happy to report, though, that he’s chanced upon no cat carcasses.