♥
Life's Inspirational Valiant Endeavors
~ These Boots ~
Around
these parts people know our place as, Barefoot Acres. It’s a little bit o’
land, barely five acres if you count the parts that serve as playground to the
deer, squirrels, birds, and a mess of kids let loose to scout for trails, tramp
through the creek, and swing like the von Trapps from the trees. You won’t find
a nicely manicured lawn or meticulously landscaped trees and shrubs here on our
place. Wildflowers, cedar saplings and the occasional ant hill pop up where the
tractor doesn’t reach, and like I holler back to my husband when he’s called
out of the garage to see what the ruckus is all about, “I swear, that damn rock
wasn’t there yesterday!” It’ll never make the cover of Better Homes and Gardens,
but it is (almost) perfect in our eyes.
When
I was little we moved *a lot*, but Kentucky,
the place where I was born, and more specifically, my grandparent’s small farm
just outside of Bardstown was always home base. I’ve spent the better part of
my grown up years trying to recreate my memories there, like missing puzzle
pieces; solid, steady puzzle pieces that gave me something to hold onto and a
better sense of who I am. I see now I may have grown a little too enthusiastic
in my search, just a little bit.
Our
place here is where family and friends gather around the campfire to play music
and roast hot dogs and marshmallows on cool autumn nights. It’s where the kids
gather in the summertime to catch lightning bugs in the tall grass across the
road, ride ponies and chase chickens. It’s where Matilda and Flopsy bunnies
were paraded around in a stroller and doll pajamas when our daughter was a
little girl, a rat, named Daisy was taken outside for tree-walks on her leash
and our dogs play search and rescue with the kids (not cops and robbers!) in
the woods. We don’t keep a milk cow, pigs or goats, though it has been suggested
we should more than once. We do keep a small garden, which may or may not produce
anything of substance from year to year, depending on whether Little League
season takes over. And we do, occasionally, gather in the pool on a starry
night and lay on our backs searching for constellations and satellites.
The
cousins call it, Barefoot Acres Camp. We call it, Home.
But
what I really want to talk to you about are these boots of mine.
I.
Don’t. Wear. Shoes. (Much) I bought a pair of men's work boots in a thrift
store, roughly ten years ago when we picked up our brood and moved them further
out into the country. Two bucks. They were everything I hated in a shoe; laces
practically to my shins, heavy as bricks (when they’re caked with mud and god
knows what), and ugly as sin. How’s a girl supposed to breathe in shoes like
these? I’m a slip-on, flip flop, sandal kinda girl, when I must wear something.
My brother asked me many years ago when he noticed my footwear, “But what would
you do if you *had* to run from an assailant?” I’d never thought of that
before. I wondered, what possesses a person to dwell on questions that only
raise one’s blood pressure thinking about it. I think now though, if I found
myself in such a predicament, I would probably calmly unlace my boots, hand
them over and tell them, “Hey, I hope they bring you the happiness you’re
searching for.” I might also kick them in the shins first, for good measure.
They are the proverbial shit kickers, after all.
These
boots of mine do serve a purpose, I realized just last week, though I finally see
them now as more of an old friend than as that albatross around my neck. Despite
the fact that I’ve experienced heart palpitations and slight nausea, on more
than one occasion, upon discovering that warm, furry, and somewhat squishy mice
are drawn to that place where the toes go. These boots, in fact, have protected
my beloved digits from frostbite, snake bite, playful Shetland temperaments, old
horse Alzheimer’s, mower blades, hot campfire coals, sticks sharpened into
spears… a la “Lord of the Flies”, errant holes dug in unsuspected places by
unsupervised children, dogs chasing fly balls and Frisbees and cats, shovels
and rakes left blade up in the garden, blood-thirsty tiller’s tines, and poo.
Let us not forget the poo; chicken poo, horse and pony poo, and bunny poo (that's Bunny POO, not Foo Foo). These boots
have seen some poo in their day. They’ve trudged through it, slipped in it, been
practically bathed and baptized in it. When I was little, I wanted to talk to
the animals. What I didn’t know then was how often I would find myself in
lively conversation with their poo.
In
this place, and in the small petting zoo that’s grown up around us here, our
family has fought bravely… in our boots… through some of the more mundane
lessons LIFE has to teach us. Loving a home is hard work. Loving the life it
supports is harder. It’s in our daily feeding chores, the back-breaking work of
barn building, ditch digging, fence erecting... and even in the graves we’ve had to dig for those we’ve
loved that have passed... that these boots, and theirs, have helped us through
the real work ~ of Living.
Last
week we buried another beloved family pet. I thought, as I pulled my boots on and
then slowly laced them up, in the early morning before the frost had
disappeared, just how much I was not looking forward to this part. The hardest
part. The real work. As many times as I have cussed and cried in these boots, I
reminded myself then that I have also laughed and loved, lived and learned in
them. Our journey is a difficult one. If it came too easy, what would be the
point?
These
two dollar boots have taken me farther than I ever thought possible, even when I sometimes
find it slightly hard to breathe in them. Who would have thought I might
actually have been running from myself? I *have* learned many things along my
journey, but one of the simplest lessons I have finally come to accept is,
sometimes it’s easier just to lace ‘em up and get to work. Before you know what
hit you, it’s time again for starry nights and search and rescue. At least,
that’s how it works around these parts... in these boots.
***
Be Brave My
Friends!
"The best way out is always through."
~ Robert Frost
