These Old Boots

Looking forlorn and something like an afterthought, a pair of old leather hiking boots lays on the carpet under my ironing board in the second bedroom that I use for storage and laundry. One boot stands upright; the other lay on its side as if it fell over, exhausted, after a long journey. Maybe it did.

If footwear can have a personality these old boots certainly do. A pair of Earth Shoes purchased at Wal-Mart, I have had them for nearly 20 years, and they have become like old friends. The leather has stretched and shrunk, bent this way and that so many times they have almost become molded to the shape of my feet, a part of me.

We have been everywhere together – up and down rugged trails in Pennsylvania; hiking the sand and scrub pine through hordes of mosquitoes on Assateague Island; exploring the granite crags and promontories of Hawk Mountain Sanctuary. These old boots have been there through every kind of weather imaginable – we have joyously sloshed through rain water; bogged in mud so thick and gluey it threatened to suck them from my feet; shoveled more tons of snow than I care to recall; and trod ground so hardscrabble and dusty that my feet felt afire.

They have been part of my wardrobe through tests of the spirit as well – with me, on destinationless walks throughout the implosion of my marriage and resultant divorce; aimless, questioning wanderings through the bleak valley of depression; contemplative forest hikes to nowhere in search of answers to questions unknown; on the shores of Harveys Lake and the banks of the Susquehanna as I pondered the meaning (or lack thereof) and direction (or lack thereof) of my life. These old boots have even carried me home, mind-weary and bone-tired, more than once through blizzard conditions when my automobile would not.

They aren’t much to look at these days, scuffed and scratched, the laces worn, soles at last beginning to separate from the uppers. With their wrinkles and discolorations they are starting to show their age (much like me, I suppose). And like me, they have become a bit worn and road-weary, the years and miles having taken their toll on us both. But, for some reason that I am unable to explain, I cannot bear to get rid of them. To do so would be like discarding a part of my history.

So, like an old, faithful dog, here they are; just sitting there, as they always have, tried and true.

Always there when I need them.

Dependable.

Comfortable.

Waiting for the next round of new laces and glued soles.

Waiting, without question or judgement, to be pulled once again onto tired feet, for one more trip down the road.

I think, with a little care, a little attention to our hearts, we might both have a few more journeys, a couple more adventures left in us.

I love these old boots.