a love letter to cowboy boots

Dear Cowboy Boots,

Tall and lean and bay-horse brown, I Iove the way you elevate me.  From the moment our town Boot Whisperer put you on my feet, I felt taller.  Every time I pull you on, you connect me with my past, my present and to my future. 

My first boots were squat and square-toed so as not to squish my growing feet.  They were memorialized in a family photo when I was six:  all 5 of us sitting on the ground and me pulling my pants legs up to show off my shiny new boots, looking for all the world like they were made of that same plasticky material that the .25 cent per ride supermarket hobby horses were made from.  I remember, too, a snakeskin pair, a pale tan almost yellow with dark tips and tops, worn to the barn everyday no matter the weather.  My toes froze into triangle shapes in the Colorado winters, thawed out only by the kerosene heater in the tack room.  Then there were the boots I used as a wrangler in my 20’s, the same style as you, today’s boots, but infinitely less fancy.  One afternoon I got the pull loop of those boots hooked on a lodgepole pine as I rode by bareback and found myself hanging upside down from the tree while my horse looked back at me confused.

You, boots, you are my forever boots now:  long- and pointy-toed and dancehall fancy with turquoise stitching rising and curling upwards.  You have just enough bling to say “elegance” but not “extravagance.”  Neither under- nor over-stated.  Still, it’s not without hesitation that I tuck my jeans inside and allow you to shine:  all those years of “boots in, jeans out” at the barn imprinted on me.  But jeans these days are too narrow to fit outside, and so, I pull you on with your full glory showing.  I stand tall and ready to head to the dancehall with my friend, feeling perhaps a bit more Texan and wholly in my right as someone who spent 25 years with horses.

Gruene Hall, Devil’s Backbone Tavern, Mercer Street, Continental Club…. The feel of those polished wood floors under my soles is a smooth slide of delight.  The dancers spin and smile, twirl, and two-step in unison. Some fast, some slow.  The twanging of music and the skating of feet engulf me for a few hours.  My cheeks hurt from smiling when I walk out the dancehall doors to head home.

And there my closet, I pull you off, lovely boots. You are dusty and have a few scuffs here and there.  I buff you with leather rub and replace the empty Coke bottles inside to keep your leathers upright, just like my friend taught me.  I admire your beauty, your significance, and your ability to bring joy to me from the feet on up, as I slide you away until next time.