A
Fathers Example
A steady thud begins to
beat against the peeling, wooden door. Once exquisite, the door now bares the signs
of heavy use. Small cracks course their way through, tan paint chips at each
groove and turn. The door may not be much to look at, but it is steady, firm,
and unwavering, much like what is about to burst through it.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!”
A voice resounds from the interior of the house. The beating slowly continues
as a woman hops excitedly to answer the call. Dressed in a cactus green
sweater, hopping about, my mother reminds me of a tiny grasshopper.
“Dad is home!” I think
to myself. Finally my best friend, my hero, is home. In through the door he
walks confidently; like a celebrity on the red carpet. With lunch-box in hand,
he swings an arm around my mother, bringing her in close for a slight kiss.
“Ewww, kissing is
gross” I say out loud. As the grasshopper and the celebrity continue their
embrace, my attention is torn down. The leather of my father’s boot is
shriveled and warped. Bits of it are withered and peeled back, revealing the
metallic steel toe beneath. The yellow shoe laces, while still intact, are
beginning to fray every which way. The scene appears as a sort of surgery, a
surgery gone horribly wrong.
“Hey
dad, your boots are pretty beat up.”
“Well,
would you look at that?” comes his reply. As if he really hasn’t noticed the
horrendous condition of his own boots.
“Son,
always remember, you can tell a lot about a man just by looking at his boots”.
Quickly, without much thought, I look down at my own
small, dangling feet. Spiderman’s gaze meets my own as my eyes rest upon my
clean, surgery free, white sneakers. Two Velcro straps on each shoe keep them
snug around my feet. If what my father has just told me is true, I have a long
ways to go before I become a man like him.
***
The difference between
my father’s battle-ready boots and my comfortable easy-going sneakers is not
something new. “Boots protect not only the foot, but also the lower part of the
leg. This distinguishing feature has been evident since the very first boot” (McDonald 7). No one really knows
who owned the first pair of boots, but you can be sure whoever it was wore them
for the same reason my father does now.
Early
boots consisted of separate leggings, soles, and uppers worn together to
provide greater ankle protection than shoes or sandals. Around 1000 B.C. these
components were more permanently joined to form a single unit that covered the
feet and lower leg, often up to the knee. In the 1700s, distinctive, knee-high
boots worn by Hessian soldiers fighting in the American Revolutionary War
influenced the development of the iconic
cowboy boots worn by cattlemen in the American west (McDonald 22).
***
When I received my
first pair of boots I was far from being a cowboy. In fact, my first pair of
boots were of the working variety. They reminded me of my fathers; except they
were new. Not a scratch scathed the clean tan leather. Not a single speck of
dirt found its way into the tread. The perfect boots cried out my inexperience
to all of those I passed by. I was eager to get out put them to good use.
Rays
of golden light shimmer gently through the branches of the pine trees. Looking
up, the light hugs my face, bringing sweat to my forehead.
“Everybody
stop!” Rick yells, his voice demanding yet understanding. The entire troop
comes to a grateful halt.
“It’s finally time for
a break” I think to myself, grateful to remove the large green monster Rick
calls a “pack” off of my shoulders.
“Bryant!
Give me a bit of your beef jerky and I’ll give you a granola bar!”
Without turning around
I know from whom the voice has come. Tom is a good friend, yet I feel he takes
advantage of people sometimes, especially me.
“Tom,
I didn’t pack that much jerky and you know it” I say, trying to show the same
toughness as our leader Rick.
“What
if it’s a chocolate granola bar?”
My young mind whips
quickly into action. Chocolate is
most definitely worth a bit of my precious resource. Tom isn’t trying to rip me
off this time, this is a good trade.
“Yeah,
ok” I say, turning to face him. With a quick toss by both of us the exchange is
complete. Nibbling on a bit of jerky, I find myself a smooth, gray boulder and
sit down. Daring a glance up the line of my fellow scouts, I try to make out
what Rick is doing. Biceps bulging, easily visible due to a sleeveless shirt,
Rick appears to be checking his military-style boots.
Before
scout troop 589 ever set feet in the Wind Rivers of Wyoming, extensive planning
had taken place. We had discussed not only what to pack for the trip, but even how to pack it. Clothing, medical
supplies, and yes, boots. Boots were
considered of lesser importance by most of the troop because they either had a
pair of the hiking variety, or owned a pair of comfortable shoes that could
handle the beating of a twenty-five mile hike. I had neither.
My father was quick to
help when I went to him with my quagmire. He gave me a pair of new, still in
the box, work boots. The only reason my Dad hadn’t used them yet was they were
a little small for him. The hiking trip would be the first time the boots had
been on an adventure.
Mimicking Rick, I too
look down and begin to inspect my boots. I am elated to see a thin film of
brown dirt now canvases the boots.
“Now I’m becoming a
man” I think to myself, happy and slightly relived the boots don’t look so new
anymore.
As quickly as my thought
about manhood enters my brain, it is replaced with a sharp pain coming from the
heel of the left boot. Perhaps a rock entered the boot, or maybe my feet are
just unaccustomed to walking so much. Reaching down, I begin to gently undo the
yellow laces. The laces are still new enough that they quickly slip through one
another, untying my knot gracefully. With a hand firmly around the back side of
the boot, I pull with all my might. The pain continues to increase as the boot
finally gives in and slides off my foot. What I see next makes me gasp.
Skin that once covered the
heel is torn and lumped into a wrinkled mound. The skin now visible under the
tear is a soft red. The quarter sized blister is extremely sensitive and burns
even when not being touched. It seems becoming a man will have to wait.
***
Standard hiker wisdom
dictates that unless you want to end your hike with weeping blisters, you’ll
need to break your boots in (Steele). My loving father neglected to tell me
this when he so graciously gave me my boots. In fact, he was more than
confident the boots would be “great” to hike in. My blisters have proven him
otherwise.
Those much wiser than myself
have said the following.
“Experienced hikers
have tricks to break boots in quickly. Some apply mink oil daily, others swear
by the Army method of fully immersing booted feet in water and walking in them
until they are dry. The best method is still brief daily use. By walking in boots
every day, the uppers will naturally wear to the shape of your foot, and the
soles will wear to your gait” (Steele).
If I would have known
the tricks of so called “experienced hikers”, I may have saved myself a great
deal of pain. But I did not, and the only way to eventually become experienced
is to first walk the path of the un-experienced.
***
Beginning as a roar,
the noise now reaches a crescendo, and pierces my ears. The Makita chop-saw
slices through the #4 rebar like butter, despite the dreadful racket. A small
look downward revels sparks showering my leather boots in a striking dance of
orange and yellow. The once light tan color is now a muddy brown. Stained with
oil, crushed by cement panels, and burned by sparks, the boots barely resemble
their former selves. They have become something different, something better.
My
feet are no longer sore, nor are they bothered with blisters. In fact, my boots
are remarkably the most comfortable shoes I own. They have come a long way
since our first adventure in Wyoming, and so have I.
“Hey
Bryant, nice job cutting that bar” says my boss, John.
“Thanks,
I think I’ll bring ear plugs next time” I reply with a chuckle.
Taking a moment to wipe
my forehead, I set down the saw, relived the job is now complete. Looking up
into the clear blue sky, I take in a deep breath of fresh air. Without much
thought, I think of how grateful I am to be alive, to have a job, and money to
pay my bills.
“Those boots are pretty
beat up” says John, looking awkwardly at my feet.
“Well you do know what
they say don’t you?” I reply.
A smile begins slowly
in one corner of mouth and moves its way to encompass my entire face. Looking
John firmly in the eyes, without blinking, I say what was taught to me a long
time ago.
“You can tell a lot
about a man just by looking at his boots”.
I think about my life, the good and the bad, the times I did things right, and the times I did things wrong. The times where things went wrong were times when my spiritual