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.
And boots.
Which were so much more than mere footwear.
Dad's boots were, in fact, the signal that opened and closed the work day.
As well as a source of entertainment.
On several 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 . . . umm . . . a baby.
A source of laughter for us kids when we'd try them on.
Then attempt 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 yet 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.
And a family tradition.
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 between their knees 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.
As mentioned, 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 has given up boots.
Shoes now 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 footwear he now pulls on.
And remembering.
That's sweet. You're so great at capturing the family rituals that make up our lives...love it!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Karen! There's something entertaining in nearly every family ritual, don't you think?!
DeleteSomehow you have made "what used to be" both funny and melancholy, Diane. Good memories can hurt a little, too.
ReplyDeleteI do love your work shirt post as well. That was before I started reading your blog regularly. Seems that both of your folks were pranksters :)
They were certainly well-matched, Jenny! :)
DeleteJust for fun you should 'assume the position'....it would probably give him a good laugh.
ReplyDeleteI'm going to try it on my next visit. And blame you . . .
DeleteYou have such a talent for turning everyday tasks into the most wonderful stories! I could picture the whole process!
ReplyDeleteThanks so much, Lana! It's the everyday tasks that were so 'UGH' when we had to do them. And miss now! :)
DeleteNot being a rancher, my dad never wore boots, in fact I don't recall anything with laces at all. Dad wore slip-ons. Shoes and slippers. The slippers would go on the minute he got home for the day and shoes weren't put on until he was ready to leave for work.
ReplyDeleteThe signal that work was done, or ready to be started! Amazing what signals shoes can send, isn't it?
DeleteLovely, Diane.
ReplyDeleteMy dad always wore shirts with a breast pocket where he kept his cigarettes and pens. Just a couple years before he died he finally was able to quit smoking. I remember how strange (but good) it was to hug him after that and notice the lack of a pack in his pocket.
But he kept the pens.
Heehee! Let's not get TOO drastic! :)
DeleteAbsolutely lovely.
ReplyDeleteThanks so much, Cassandra!
DeleteI love the photo on this post! And you painted another with your words.
ReplyDeleteIt's still so clear in my mind, Susan! Seems like it was a few minutes ago . . .
DeleteI loved this story Diane and it reminds me of my dad. He had to wear those steel toed boots because of his job and many, many times one of us kids had to help with that removal and I can't remember the times we would try to walk with these big heavy things. He's been gone a long time (he died suddenly when I was only 15). It's nice to think about those memories. It's amazing I can still remember his smell more than anything. It's so strange the things we remember!
ReplyDelete