They were old and
leaky, beaten and scratched, and replacements were already on hand.
It was easy to just strip the laces out and toss the old boots in the
garbage can. The stories that went with the boots, though, weren't so
quickly discarded and likely will always remain.
Like the day they were bought. It was about twenty years ago, and I
was an apprentice falconer. I needed a new pair of hunting boots, and
these looked like just the thing. They were insulated and waterproof,
with grip soles and all the features needed for hunting, and they
were on sale. So I walked out of the Sears store in the huge shopping
mall in Jackson, Mississippi, with those boots, and into...
Finding hawks, trapping hawks, training hawks, hunting hawks, trying
to help injured hawks, looking for lost hawks, and I was wearing my
boots. Hunting alone, hunting with friends, hunting at field meets,
yep, the boots were a part of it all. The first kill with the first
hawk, all the chases before and after, all the misses before and
after, and all the hawks after, through the exhilaration of the
chase, the desperation of the search for a lost hawk, the heartbreak
of a dead hawk, those boots carried me through each adventure as
steadfastly as the very first hunt.
Those boots went through all of it... the mud, the blood and a tiny
bit of glory. All the running, chasing, falling, walking, jumping,
leaping, stumbling; all the briars, vines, creeks, hills, fallen
trees, private lands, game trails, lanes, cultivated fields, beaver
ponds, ridges, pine thickets, hardwood forests, ravines, ditches, the
Piedmont, the Coastal Plain, fence rows, public lands, rotting logs,
dirt roads, swamps, stumpholes, paved roads, lakes, fallow fields,
valleys, meadows; all the sunny days, foggy days, windy days,
freezing days, drippy days, hot days, cold days; at dawn, at dusk,
after dark; in rain storms, ice storms, wind storms, snow storms; all
the talking, yelling, silence, crying, swearing, muttering, praying,
laughing, screaming, mumbling, those boots were right there.
They were dependable boots. You could count on them to drop mud on my
wife's newly swept and mopped kitchen floor. They would keep my feet
warm and, for a long time, dry. Until too many briar patches and too
many miles finally took their toll. And at last it was time to
finally say so long to a fine old pair of boots.
While it's hard to give up something that's been such an integral
part of the story, there are more adventures waiting. And I'm looking
forward to them; give me a minute while I put on my new pair of
boots.
Don
Copyright ©2002 Donald C. Wilson
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