The Vernal Equinox and the first day of Spring.... what a long journey it's been since the last time the daylight and night time hours stood in delicate balance.
Spring means shedding, which horses do prodigiously - that's a lot of square footage of winter fur that has to go! Every year I forget and wear something warm and fleece-y to the barn, and every year I swear I won't make the same stupid mistake again. Fleece is never the same once horse hair has insinuated itself into that welcoming fuzzy surface. When it comes to all the mud and muck, I fare a bit better. Tall rubber boots are standard issue for March and April. I've always been good with boots.
In fact, I sort of have a boot thing.
It started when I was a kid. I was the only girl, and also the only one of three kids in our family who wanted to go "up north" to a family friend's cabin on summer weekends with my sweet 'Papa'. The same wonderful ritual preceded each "up north" season - a trip to the Holiday sporting goods department for boots. Back then there weren't a lot of boots to choose from, and nothing for girls. Which was fine by me. From the time I was allowed to dress myself, I fancied a uniform inspired by the Beats, even though Hippies were the next big thing. I wore black boys jeans (I was tall and rail-thin, and boy's pants were the only pants that fit me) and plain black long-sleeved turtleneck shirts. Johnny Cash had nothin' on me. Every year I would pick out the same black engineer boots, in a size bigger. I was smitten with their classic style, sturdy construction with the cool strap across the front and the even cooler silver buckles on the sides. I'd clomp across neighbor's yards and over their split-rail fences, pretending I was a horse.
(Draft breed I'm thinking, in those big ol' boots...)
My elegant mom, a high heels, gloves and hat kind of dame, just didn't get it. Me being the only daughter, she had such high girly hopes for me. Her sister had been Mrs. Minnesota and ran a charm school. And then there was me with my boots. She refused to let me wear the beloved boots to school. As far as she was concerned, their only merit was that I could tuck my pants into the tops of them and outwit the wood ticks.
Mom sent me to the local department store's annual 'Glamorama' teen fashion training camp when I was in sixth grade, in a vain attempt to glamor the tomboy right out of me. All that happened was that I still, to this day, merrily sport black engineer boots. The pair I've worn for the last twelve-plus years happens to be from Harley Davidson. I swear they will last forever. They are the most comfortable footwear I have ever worn, hands down. Or, feets down, I guess. I don't ride motorcycles anymore since my husband traded in the Electra Glide for a Hayabusa. I said "NOT A CHANCE IN HELL AM I GETTING ON THAT!" regarding this Japanese monster that can do 200 mph.
But I do ride my horse, real easy like, in these great boots.
Meanwhile. engineer boots have actually come to be an acceptable footwear choice, worn by just about everyone, and without a tsk-tsk or a second glance from most mavens. And when the mud dries up at the barn, and I put away the rubber boots till next spring, the black engineer boots will be my first choice for footwear. Unless I'm in the mood for one of my many pairs of old cowboy boots. Or my english style field boots. Or...
Like I said, I have sort of a boot thing.
No comments:
Post a Comment