Baby brother . . . being entertained |
My father (herinafter known as 'Dad')
was a rancher.
He had been born that way.
In his twenties, he added the title of
'Veterinarian' to that.
But he was first and foremost, a
rancher.
As a rancher, his wardrobe seldom
varied.
Heavy work pants.
Work shirts. (Which have a history of their own . . .)
And boots.
Which were much more than mere
footwear.
They were, in fact, the signal that
opened and closed the work day.
And a source of entertainment.
On many levels.
Dad's boots were - because he had
'special' feet – special.
They were heavy.
And specifically designed to compensate
for his long, narrow, profoundly flat extremities.
They laced up the front.
And fit . . . well.
They were the favourite entertainment
for my baby brother.
When he was a baby.
A source of laughter for us kids when
we'd try them on.
Then try to walk.
Usually covered in mud and manure
during the day's labours, then scrupulously cleaned before being
brought into the house.
With Dad's pocket knife. (But that is
another story.)
In short, they were a part of my Dad.
An important part.
Dad always donned them himself.
Said donning, after breakfast, was
always the signal that visiting was over and the workday starting.
But Dad never, ever took his boots off
by himself.
In fact, the removal of Dad's boots was
quite a process.
Let me describe . . .
Dad would take his seat in his usual
comfy recliner.
And his numerous children would
scatter, suddenly recalling activities that needed immediate
attention.
Somewhere else.
But there was always a laggard.
Someone who was the slowest to react.
Dad would pin them to their chair with
a look.
Then silently hold out a foot.
Reluctantly, the child would assume the
position.
Facing away from Dad and bent forward,
clutching said boot with both hands.
Dad would then put his other foot on
his helper's backside and start pushing.
His boot would be quickly and
efficiently . . . removed.
And dropped on the floor.
The process was repeated with the
second boot.
The footwear was then gathered.
And set aside.
Only then was the slave
helper, released.
Mission accomplished.
This procedure signalled the end of the
work day.
Odd, isn't it, that a humble pair of
boots would assume such proportion in our daily life.
But they did.
Now in his late eighties, Dad still
wears boots.
They replace his slippers when he is
going outside.
And, like his slippers, they slip on
and off easily.
I was watching him the other day as he
sat down.
Staring at the boots he now pulls on.
And remembering.
What a wonderful story! Isn't it funny that some of the simplest daily activities are the ones that stick in our memory years later?
ReplyDeleteThings like, dishes, cleaning, chores. All become special memories . . . in the past! :)
DeleteI remember Dad's boots, both when getting coerced into removing them and also getting the side of them in my backside when I wasn't behaving. I didn't like either one, needless to say...
ReplyDeleteI was going to include the side-bop. But didn't. Sigh.
DeleteA touching remembrance! I think of my own dad's work boots. I wish I had taken them when we had to clean out the house after Mom and Dad were both gone.
ReplyDeleteIsn't it amazing how simple, everyday things become so precious . . . afterwards.
DeleteYou should offer to take them off for him...just for old times sake. I'll bet he would get a chuckle out of it.
ReplyDeleteAnd he would definitely take me up on it!
DeleteYou might just get a 'kick' out of it (ahem).
DeleteThe things our parents made us do... Oh well, we survived it, lol
ReplyDeleteThat which doesn't kill you . . . :)
Delete