Boot Hill
Noel Laflin
1-8-23
The entire bottom
gripping section came off the left foot of an old pair of boots today. I was
forced to stop, and upon investigation saw that the right boot's bottom was
about to peel away, too
Crazy Glue (or
something stronger) might do the fixing trick, but I am inclined to just get a
new pair, as these are pretty old. I am just glad I was walking back home from
across the street, and not stuck in a muddy bog deep down in a steep ravine
somewhere when the uncoupling occurred.
I had a friend at
summer camp who would bury his stinky boots at the end of each season. I
thought it wasteful, until I shared a small cabin with him one summer and
understood why he took such drastic measures. His having to leave his boots
outside each night was absolutely necessary, and clued me in as to the
sweating, sweet stink, and eventual burying ritual. He said it was due to his
diabetes, and I believe he had a valid point.
We thought of planting
an oak or fir seedling above each discarded pair of boots, so as to mark each
grave property, but figured any seedling with any sense would up an move half a
mile away once our backs were turned.
Consequently, there
are six or seven unmarked graves up on our old mountain hiding perils with a
half-life unmeasured - a lost Boot Hill, if you will.
My boots don't smell
to such a degree, fortunately; they’re just old and broken. I am going to
miss them, but not anywhere near how much I miss my friend, despite his stinky
footwear, from half a century ago. But as he was always a fan of my feeble
tales, I bet he would have smiled with the telling of this one; he rests upon
that very mountain, too, now. But the old boots he buried there are at least
half a mile away.
Now, time to make
plans for a proper burial - or maybe just the recycle bin instead, and a quick
prayer of thanks for boots that were definitely made for walking, until, very
much like my old friend from so long ago, they just grew too tuckered out
for walking and called it quits one day.
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