Leather Boots Tell a Story
I love shoes. It’s a fact that I keep pretty quiet about. It’s not only the shoes, it’s the smell and feel of leather in my hands. I don’t know where I found my appreciation for well made leather shoes. I do remember that my father had beautiful pairs of oxfords and that I often polished them so they would be waiting for him, shining bright, on Sunday morning for his work at church.
Over the years, I have worn through many a pair of nice leather shoes, from clogs to hiking boots to sandals to cowboy boots. It’s always a sad day when after many years of wear, I have to throw them away. The hardest so far was a pair of work/hiking boots that I purchased here in Goshen at a small shoe shop on Lincoln Avenue. I had those shoes for 30 years and travelled out west and over the ocean and walked all over with them. But when they could no longer keep my feet dry, I had to pitch them.
So, the other night, as I was sitting and listening to The Dawg Band at Goshen Brewing Company on a beautiful autumn evening, a man sat down next to me, well, six feet away from me, and I immediately noticed his leather boots. They looked like the kind I would pick out for myself: wide square toed, natural leather color, a short stacked leather heel and midway up the leg. They looked comfortable, stylish, classic and nicely broken in. I couldn’t help myself. I leaned in and asked, “Are those Frye boots?They look a lot like a pair I had many years ago.” “No,” he said, “they are Ariat.” I nodded and throughout the rest of the evening, we chatted on and off about boots and leather.
In an easy manner, his Notre Dame hat perched backwards on his head, he told me about the town he went to in Montana where he learned how to craft boots when he made his own pair from bull’s leather, elk leather and bone. Lovingly, he described how he plain stitched a design and put his initials on one boot and the date in roman numerals on the other. “So many details go into making a shoe,” he told me. In my mind, I thought, “and into making bread and guitars,” things Jim and I are very familiar with as craftspeople. This man obviously liked boots.
As the hours slipped by, we shared photos of boots we found on our phones. And then he told me that he doesn’t often wear his handmade boots. “They’re stiff,” he said. So we talked about how one has to soften and condition leather to make it pliable and keep it from cracking. I told him how I love to take mink oil in the fall and grease up my leather boots so they will be ready for winter weather. He, in turn, recommended a product he uses on leather.
Ultimately, he told me that he didn’t want to wear the handmade boots because they could get marred. “On the other hand,” I said. “If you wear them, the marks made on them will become part of their story. When you look at them, you will know where these boots have been. Isn’t that part of their beauty?” Like so many things we want to protect, we tend to not be able to let go. And yet, the beauty of life are those stories that make it full and rich and that we can look back on with more experience.
He seemed to accept my statement. But we never spoke another word. Soon, he was gone in the night, bundled up against the creeping chill and the cold ride home on his orange low bagger motorcycle. If you read this, stranger, wear those boots until you can wear them no more. Fill them with stories of trips and hard knocks and beautiful landscapes and conversations with strangers. And I’ll send that advice out to the rest of you too. It’s all about the living that adds up to the story. (And thanks to Goshen Brewing Company for providing a place where strangers can meet up and talk about boots!)
