a boot story
So the western boots sat. I forgot about them. They stayed out of the way in the mudroom and my summer of riding lessons turned into fall, then winter, and then spring came and my mudroom was full of chickens. Well, if any of you keep or raise chickens indoors as chicks you learn about the dust that builds up everywhere around them. My barely-worn boots turned into chicken dust-piles.
Somewhere around last winter I stopped caring about what people at the office thought about my outfits and wanted to wear my cowboy boots. They were disgusting and neglected, crusty with fecal dust. I decided to throw them in the washing machine and let them dry in the cold sunlight and what was left was a patina of faded, softer leather. I started wearing them because I liked them. Just to the office, or out on weekend work chores. They broke into a perfect form of foot and ankle. I didn't wear them to ride, I stuck with my English garb, but I sure wore them and proudly.
Today after my lesson with Trainer Dave I realized how perfect they are for riding now. They soft ankles and pointed toes, the support and flexibility at the same time. I adore my old boots and I'm happy they grace the sides of a sunburned brown pony on a mountain rode. They might have been bought by inexperience as a mistake but they are now worn true to the cause. They make me feel authentic, and free, and just the sight of them makes my spirit lift. Those boots mean time on a horse, my horse, and the rest is
history. P.S. Unrelated, but true. Boots and Dutch are the best nicknames ever. Aint that right, boots?