A Conversation With My Boots
The boots are all business at these times, plodding forward like draft horses, saddled with crampons that grab the ice underfoot.
The boots came out of the basement closet this week, along with the crampons, scarves, waterproof gloves, wool hats, and winter jackets. It is always a pleasure to see them again, like the sweaters that waited out the summer, jammed in drawers. The chance to stretch out, experience daylight, greet the shorts and t-shirts as they go by to take their place in the vacant bureaus, contributes to a feeling of happy reunion for a day or two around the house.
The return of the winter articles always means there is snow on the ground. Until then, we have clung to the last days of autumn by dressing in fleece jackets and baseball caps. Last week, despite cold temperatures, various middle schoolers were at the bus stop in shorts and sweatshirts, and I was walking with Huckleberry in hightop sneakers, wearing a light parka.
That ended this week with our first snowstorm, nearly eight inches. I sat, watching out the window, as the tips of green grass, and the trunks of fallen trees, disappeared under a white blanket. We may not see them again until spring, four or five months from now. And, in the way that nature can abruptly unpack the seasons, temperatures also plunged, down to single digits yesterday. At the start of the week, the pond was open water. Today, it is frozen over, brilliantly white above; inky black below.
I have been partners with some of my winter clothes for years, together with them since my children were small. Once more, we are going to depend on each other to stay warm outdoors, remain in good repair, and reach our destinations. No doubt, we will meet friends along the way with that old hat of theirs on their head, and the stories to go along.
My boots, adjusting to the upstairs surroundings, decide to comment: “You rearranged the living room.”
True, earlier this summer.
We go to fetch wood from below the porch, where it is stacked beside the outdoor furniture. The boots ask if we sit down here in the summer. The question surprises me because, wedged between woodpiles, there is clearly not space for the tables, chairs, and couches except as they are, arranged in tight rows. But what do winter boots know about summer porch furniture?
I respond, “No. We move the furniture upstairs. Another pair of shoes helps me with that. The same ones that help me split and stack the wood.”
“Sounds like a lot.”
“Yes, but you help me shovel snow, as you did today, which is rugged work of its own kind.”
Later, we hike through the deep snow while Huckleberry charges back and forth. The boots are all business at these times, plodding forward like draft horses, saddled with crampons that grab the ice underfoot. It is their first day out of the basement closet, and they haven’t lost a step.
I say, “Looks like almost eight inches. Maybe ten in spots.”
“Easily,” comes the muffled response.
“Forecasters are saying it could be a very snowy winter. Something about La Niño trade winds, which makes for colder, wetter conditions where we are.”
“Mmmm,” is all I get in return.
Part of our contract is that I slather the boots with wax, which I haven’t done yet. It prevents chapping. The boots will be wet when we get home, which means drying before waxing. They are not as happy to sit in front of the wood stove as the hats and gloves. The heat from the stove only makes the chapping worse. So the problem is that I forget about them before I go to bed. Morning arrives, and there is no time to wax and wait as the leather absorbs the effects. Thus, the cycle repeats.
“Remind me to get the wax when we get home.”
“Good plan.”
We march along.
I have a new, blue, wool sweater that belonged to a friend of mine who died this year. With our dogs, we were frequent hiking buddies. His wife, with whom we have become close, gave it to me. They were married for only two weeks before he departed, reconnected after living separate lives since high school, and after his first wife’s death two years ago. Gradually, his widow—our friend—is picking up the pieces. Some of it will go into drawers and basement closets. The blue sweater has come to me.
“Do you remember Rick?” I ask, stopping and looking around for Huck.
“Sure. And the two goldens. Lots of time walking together.”
“He died this summer.”
“Oh, hey, I’m sorry. Terrible news. Gosh.”
“His wife gave me one of his sweaters.”
“Do you have it on?”
“No . . . No, I haven’t felt up to that. I’ve seen a picture of him wearing it years ago.”
“So it’s an old sweater.”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s going to have a lot to say, maybe.”
I pause to clap my hands. Huck appears, I pitch him a treat, and he races away again. The boots shuffle around, packing snow under foot, waiting for marching orders.
Finally, I answer them. “I know, maybe lots to say. And I’m not ready for that.”