boots

In the life of a farmer, boots are a common denominator, the thread through the days. When you work on your feet, you’ll do a lot to keep them happy.

I’m a bean boots kind of gal myself, which is somewhat unusual. Bean boots are relatively cheap, around $60. They’re also basic civilian footwear – no steel toe, no straps or lining or reinforcements. Just plain rubber boots. I’ve tried others. Blundstones are big on the island. But in the morning, rain or shine, when it’s time to get going, I just want my bean boots.

Earlier this month I noticed that, for the first time, water was getting into the footbed on my left side. I tried putting a ziplock over my sock, which helped a little with dryness, but not with insulation. It’s November in New England. If you have cold water in your boot, you are going to have some really cold toes.

It’s hard to explain how attached I am to these boots. They’ve been with me across so many fields, so many places. I hoped that I could salvage them with gorilla glue. But then I saw where the water was getting in – through a long shallow trench in the sole of the boot. It wasn’t a crack. That I could’ve fixed. The problem was that I’ve done so much walking, taken so many steps, that I wore away the actual sole of the boot, which is a deal-breaker.

And so, with a heavy heart, I ordered an identical pair. When the big brown box arrived on my doorstep and I pulled out the new set, I was taken aback by how they looked standing alongside my beloved old pair. Suddenly I noticed how completely faded my boots had become through the seasons, the embossed logo all but illegible, the heel seam a wavy cracked shadow, the color a blotchy bastard cousin of its former hunter green. In this world where consumer goods are increasingly designed to be irreparable and disposable (designed obsolescence anyone?), things that are well made, things that are truly of use, become increasingly rare, increasingly precious.

A seasoned cast iron skillet. A well balanced hand tool. A good pair of boots.