On the day when it’s time to visit the barber – back when I still had a full head of thick blond hair, it was common to look in the mirror and tell oneself, “Dang! I look good. I don’t need a trim.” But sensibilities prevailed and off you went to tidy yourself up a little bit. Those days are in the past: easy come easy go.
And so too is my hesitation when it’s time to retire the current boots I own and buy another pair. It takes weeks, sometimes months – it’s always months for me, to finally pull the trigger and say goodbye to these two loyal friends comfortably hugging my feet. They’ve been so good to me. Shakespeare said that “parting is such sweet sorrow.” In reality, it’s an emotional drain: letting go, starting over, working out the quirks in this new relationship.
We’ve shared so much together. The memories and experiences that are sometimes taken for granted although never truly forgotten, and those times when the circumstances reluctantly call for a better choice. But the reputation of trustworthiness they have earned is implanted deep within your mind, and the assurance of their reliability is difficult to shake.
I know I don’t take care of them perhaps as well as I should. They’ve never intentionally be left outside in the rain, but of course it has happened a time or two either because of laziness or forgetfulness; entirely my bad for whatever the reason. There are some folks who will oil their leather on occasion to prolong their life, their look, and their luster. I have been unable to graduate to that level of forethought.
The elements of rock or water, snow or dirt, mud or manure, it doesn’t matter. They were manufactured and then purchased by me and for me to use at my discretion. Even doing concrete work in them when I was younger and physically able, it makes no difference. The other fellas on the crew had professional, heavy walled rubber workware that rose to just below the knee, and they warned me. “You’re gonna ruin your boots,” they’d say. I wasn’t sharp enough back then to accept someone’s good advice. Now, if something causes me pain or costs me pennies, I will listen.
The hard-working men and women in the world, whose livelihoods depend upon lacing up every day, probably aren’t as sentimental. They have a job or profession that requires consistent usage and may need to replace their boots with far more frequency than someone such as me. God bless them all, the footwear they chose is one of the most important “tools” in their arsenal. Once that tool is worn out and beyond redemption, it’s essential to replace it post haste. The Gorilla glue and electrical tape are no longer curing the ailments.
An occasional user who needs something for recreational use and small odd jobs around the yard can own a pair that will last for years. Broken in to fit the contours of your sole and ankle just right, they give a feeling of confidence and command. It’s like the little train pulling a load up the mountainside – “I think I can, I think I can.”
I need to be proactive, the polar opposite of reactive, which is what this is; postponing the inevitable and delaying a forgone conclusion. They’ll go on a shelf in the garage with the other five or six pairs I've had since my twenties.
We’ve become attached and I lack the ability to permanently bid farewell.
My children will find them after I go meet Jesus.
The bottom treads will be new and fresh, grabbing and picking up every pebble and hunk of gunk I pass. Sneaking through the house without leaving a trail will be impossible. The first noticeable scuff will irritate me, but I have arrived at the realization that the scuff is like a wrinkle on your profile; it's a
sign of being, and doing, and living. And that makes it all okay.
