My old boots
Ceremony and grief in the crucible of empathy-deficit
For a person who has always struggled to form any kind of meaningful connection with a fellow human, I enter into oddly intimate and long-lasting relationships with pairs of boots. Walking boots, work boots, even the soft leather flying boots that were issued to us at flying school and periodically, always grudgingly, replaced by the corporal at the Personal Equipment (Flying) counter in the supply section warehouse. Because flying boots needed to be smart and polished at all times there really was no choice, and thus no moral dilemma, in letting a worn and scuffed pair go. And anyway, I would try to tell myself, they were never really mine. The RAF just lent them to me. Still, we had flown together and sometimes fought together. Laughed and cursed. Passed through the long night and seen the dawn. Rejoiced at the northern lights and danced with the high cirrus clouds together. It required a stiff upper lip when I used to see the old boots and the new standing to attention next to each other on the counter. Changing the guard. Strangers. But strangers bound to the same ritual of duty. It wouldn’t do for an officer to shed a tear over a pair of old boots.
The expiration of my own personal boots involves no such formality. We go through a lot together, my boots and I. Often, they are the only company I have. The shock of a spade unexpectedly hitting rock, doesn’t it rack the boot’s sole and the digger’s ankle at just the same moment? When a woodcock gets up from your feet at the very last second, don’t your boots and your face bask in the very same thrum of eternal glory? These things, surely, are the makings of a friendship. The mother stones of affection.
But boots, like dogs, were not made to last forever. We can deduce, therefore, that the universe was created by a storyteller. To have conjured up the joy of good boots and the perfection of dog but to have allotted them less than a quarter of our three score years and ten – that could not have happened by chance. To pull the strings of love so tight that they cut into your fingertips when you play on them – that is irrefutable evidence of design. Call the storyteller ‘God’ if you must. Personally, I have no need of miracles beyond a collie dog called Nell and a sturdy pair of boots.
So, when the leather of my boots has split like clay soil cracked under summer sun, when the soles begin to separate and we can no longer politely ignore the quiet flip-flap at every step, there comes a day when the boots and I sigh and sit to retell one last time the stories of all the adventures we have had. We understand each other.
For boots, if not for dogs, this creates a dilemma. Boots these days cannot be buried, with or without the honours due to them. Too many artificial materials. But it is simply unthinkable to take them off my feet and put them straight into the bin. What kind of cold-hearted monster could do that? And I fear that I know a thing or two about cold-hearted monsterdom. So I have a special shelf in a dark corner of the shed where my boots go when they retire. We tell each other that there will maybe come a morning and some particularly mucky job that does not warrant the ruination of new boots. The old boots will come out of the reserves and we’ll stride out together again, just like in the old days. Maybe we will. In the meantime, the old boots close their eyes for a bit of a well-earned nap. They gather dust on the bottom shelf until the life finally leaves them. It may be a month or two. Rarely more than a year. Then, and only then, can I bring myself to dispose of the husk of the old boots whose stories have all evaporated into the evening breeze.
This is the most gentle and effective exploration of mortality and mourning I've yet encountered. Very helpful and appreciated. Thank you, David.
When I reached into my mailbox this morning, my hand touched what felt like an old leather envelope. Curious, I carefully extracted it from all the paper competing for space. Addressed to me? Titled, ‘Old Boots’? Did my husband put you up to this? If your old boot collection is anything like mine, they have accompanied me on many a journey, tossing them by the wayside is indeed a travesty. I wear mine every day. I am not what you would call a high-heeled kind of girl. I have four pairs, all of the same brand. Black, heavy rubber-soled that are great for gripping rock, but eventually granite and pavement, life, wear them down to a crooked heel and worn-out tread. The ‘elders’ are dispersed between summer camp and home. Four have been relegated to garden work, I’ve promised to use them, and I do. I think your old boots are in my basement. They uncannily resemble my husband’s, either that or your boots had their own solo adventure. They crossed an ocean and ended up in VT. I will be more than happy to find them a nice tree stump in the woods with a lovely view. Of course I will have to sneak them out the back door in a brown paper bag; wouldn’t want to be caught with a case of mistaken identity—‘but honey, I thought for sure they looked like David Knowles’ boots’, —‘Who the heck is David Knowles?’ Perhaps that shelf in the shed should be called The Boot Library, treasured like old books with a worn binding. I love your sentiments and metaphors. You are a kindred spirit of all things boots: the passage of time, the well trodden path laid out in memories, and the footfalls not yet written in the earth.
( check your DM)