Today I sat down with a tin of saddle soap and a tin of mink oil. After several weeks of adventure in Alaska, it is time to clean and recondition my old boots. I should probably do this more often. But the rare occasion when I do take the time to maintain my boots, I am flooded with memories.
The smell of the saddle soap reminds me of the few other occasions when I sat down to clean my boots in the past...Once in married student housing during college, while Titus was deployed. Those were the days before scars from barbed wire and sticker vines marred the leather, after we bought the land. I wore my boots in the apartment, every day, because I had an illegal kitten to keep me company during my lonely days of pacing the floors. Kitty's favorite game was attack-the-feet. I wore my boots as a form of armor. The second time was at our rent house in Hughes Springs. I recall sitting in my wing-back arm chair during the agonizingly long summer. (I think I had to interrupt the cleaning process to squish a cock roach; one of hundreds I killed in that sieve of a house.) And most recently, in October. A splendid monsoon had hit us just in time for Titus' sister and our nephew to visit us from bone-dry southern California. I sat on the living room floor working the soap into my bedraggled, soggy boots as everyone else played Marble Works.
The smell of mink oil--just the phrase "mink oil"--reminds me of Daddy. He taught me how to take care of leather in the first place. Looking at my poor old boots, I can't help but think they never would have gotten this broken down if I'd taken care of them as well as Daddy would have. I am always striving to be a better good steward of what I am given, whether it's my boots or garden tools, or vacuuming the interior of my vehicle...Daddy set an example to follow when I was a kid, and he still does now. As I work the mink oil into the leather, "do it right, do it once," "don't be lazy and cut corners," and "if it's worth doing, it's worth doing well" runs through my head...Life lessons from Daddy. He probably learned them from Papaw.
While I have only cleaned my boots properly four times in over six years of owning them, I have worn them almost every day. Most mornings I pull on socks, stuff my feet into my boots, and continue without giving it another thought. But lately, the old Heritage Stockman Ariats have been begging for a little more attention. The leather around the ball of my foot is worn out to the point of leaking when it's wet outside. The treads are worn smooth on the bottom, and now I have worn the soles down to the rubber inside. These old dogs are showing some age. Technically, these are riding boots. But I have mowed yards, wandered trails, climbed trees, walked over tundras, and hiked to glaciers in these boots. They have seen the stirrup of a saddle exactly two times. I recall all the places I have gone in these boots, and the people who walked with me. Each chapped wrinkle, every gouge to the leather, brings up a memory of exploring the land with Titus in the East Texas summer heat. Or switching between my sodden boots and my rain boots after a storm blew in at camp on the Noatak River (during a mission trip to help build a summer church camp for teens in the northern wilds of Alaska). Old memories. New memories also...Staggering along the difficult hike to Exit Glacier. I was exhausted by the climb, but the further up we went, the more energetic Titus got. I have no idea how he can thrive as the oxygen levels diminish--personally, I like my oxygen. And then walking the Upper Troublesome Creek Trail with Titus a few weeks ago near Talkeetna, Alaska. My feet were killing me on account of having worn through the last of the padding inside my boots.
I don't know how much longer these old boots will last. Maybe I can get them repaired or something, and extend their life a bit more. But if these croak, I will get another pair and put many miles on them also. And with every mile and every scar to the leather, I will remember where I have come from.
