A Life in His Boots

I bought a pair of boots today.

In fact, they may be the first pair of boots I have ever bought. I have never had the reason to buy my own boots because I have had the same pair of boots since I was 16. Boots that I had received from my dad, though sadly they were not given as a gift, but received as an inheritance.

It was then, when I was 16 that I went from looking up to my dad, literally, to now trying to fill his shoes, again, literally. He passed away suddenly in the hospital while getting some tests on his heart. His second heart. He had received a transplant when I was about 8 years old. A transplant that granted him eight more years on this earth. Eight more years to be my dad.

Back to the boots.

Dad was a construction worker and he had boots that befitted his occupation. Tough leather and thick soled, a pair of plain, but reliable Red Wings that were built to work, and to work hard. They were boots that were not to just be worn, but lived in. And lived in them he did.

What’s funny is that dad was particular about very few things. He was a simple man. Worked hard. Tried to keep up on his bills. Didn’t spend money on name brand clothes when what he had was just fine. If he couldn’t afford to buy something expensive, he would either build it or just not buy it. It “wasn’t worth that kind of money”. He would much rather spend time than spend money.

Except for two things.

The first were his sunglasses. He always would spend a small fortune on Ray-Ban sunglasses because they were the best at keeping the sun out the eyes for his job. He worked outside all day, operating heavy machinery and he didn’t want cheap sunglasses to impede his vision. The irony is that I remember him, more than once, going to sit down in his truck and hearing that so distinct “crunch” as he sat on his very nice, very expensive Ray-Bans. That crunch would immediately be followed with the choice vocabulary of a sailor as he contemplated wearing them, broken as they were, or forking over the cash for a new pair.

The other thing in which he was particular were his boots. I remember going to The Shoe Box in Black Earth, Wisconsin when he bought his boots. These boots. You see, dad had size 15 feet, and finding a shoe store that had his size back then was next to impossible, especially if you wanted anything nice. But The Shoe Box, they had his size, and they were nice too. Nice, tough leathered, thick soled, size 15 Red Wing boots. I remember the drive there. I remember him trying them on. I remember him buying them and the drive back. Memories fade as I have aged, but I remember this.

I also remember the day those boots became mine.

That was a day full of sorrow and grief. That was a day that I was thrust into manhood whether I liked it or not. A day that I had to step into my dad’s shoes.

No new memories to be made. No more stories. No more trips. No more milestones. Just me, the memories I did have, and a pair of boots.

When they first became mine, I stored them away, along with a few of the other things I had of dad’s. Much too large for my feet I figured I would never wear them, but I couldn’t come to part with them. I didn’t think much about them for years. It wasn’t until I was almost done with college that I took them out and dusted them off and thought I would try them on one summer while working at a camp. I didn’t have any boots of my own so I thought “why not” and put them on even if they didn’t fit.

But they did fit.

I’m not saying that suddenly my feet went from a size 13 to 15 or that the boots somehow molded themselves to my foot as if guided by the ghost of my father. What I am saying is that they never felt uncomfortable. They always felt, right. It was as if, whatever the task, whatever the journey, they were there, and the job would get done.

So I wore them more. And more. They worked as summer camps with me. They worked at a moving company. They moved me from Wisconsin to Kentucky and then back again. They carried me to Arizona, where I met my wife. They moved me into God knows how many houses. They’ve been tromped in by my kids, first my daughter, and then my son. And most recently they moved me to Utah.

It has been almost 24 years since my dad passed away. Almost 24 years of his memories, slowly fading, becoming warm and indistinct. Almost 24 years that I have been without him.

But for a pair of boots.

For almost 24 years, though I have not been able to make any new memories with my dad, I have been able to carry him with me, a small bit at least, into each new chapter in my life. For almost 24 years, I have been able to carry dad, not just in my heart, but in my steps. For almost 24 years, he has been with me in a very unique way.

I have been able to walk a life in his boots.

But, that time has ended.

I bought a pair of boots today. Why? Well other than the obvious that boots, no matter how well made, are worse for the wear after almost 24 years. They have be scuffed, soaked, torn and chewed. Their soles are worn, and the leather cracked. They have served me well but their time has come. Their story is over.

So I make my own story. In my own boots. I have carried my dad’s memories in my feet for far too long. Now is the time for me to make my own memories with my own kids. The next chapter of my life needs to be my own. Making my own way, free from the obligation of trying fill my dad’s boots. Free from the challenge of living up to him and instead standing on my own two feet. Free from trying to just make him proud of me as a son, and instead try to be a father and husband my own family can be proud of.

Its time to live a life in my own boots.