The house I grew up is a pretty average 80′s track home. The living room is pretty central to the floor plan, and laid out with a couple of large windows on each side of the house. Above one of these windows is a collection of artifacts of my mother’s family: an old violin, some pictures. The window across the way holds a paternal collection: a license plate from the truck I learned to drive in, a national geographic from the month my father was born, a collection of belt buckles, and a pair of Redwing work boots.
My father’s father died when I was thirteen. It was the first family death I remember vividly. My maternal grandmother had died some years before, but I was young enough and the distance between my mother’s family and my own so great, that I cannot pick out any salient details about the event. My paternal grandparents lived in town, and their entire clan of children and grandchildren were no farther then the, admittedly expansive, borders of our home state. His death was sudden and happened at a time when I was cusping the point when a child begins to take really take part in such events. I spoke at the service and I remember the strange air about the family for quite some time afterward.
There’s a second sort of death for a person after the physical one, when objects of their life are moved, discarded, or repurposed; when the holes they leave behind are patched over, filled in, or left to heal. This second death can take years, decades, to fully happen, and may never really finish, but it is at its most active in the days or weeks following their laying to rest. One small aspect of this, for my grandfather, was the dispersal of his clothes.
I got a number of objects, a belt and some shirts amongst else, but the most important was his size 12, 8 inch work boots. These boots already had years of wear on them the before then went on my feet. In certain respects this counted against them: the soles were worn smooth since I got them and the wearer’s feet was subject to an uncomfortable but occasional poking from a bent steel toe. But in one factor it was a blessing; new boots are always uncomfortable, and never feet right until months of wear and tear has broken them in. These were easy to wear from day one. Wear them I did, off an on for seven years.
When my father and I rode motorcycles together, these were the boots I wore. They were the boots I learned to ride in. These were the boots I traipsed around parks in with my buddies and it was in these boots I returned later with the same buddies to play midnight games of laser tag. Sometime in high school, these became my de facto footwear and remained so until several years into my stint with higher education.
I don’t know how many years of abuse these boots took because I’m not sure how long they were worn before I got a hold of them. After seven years in my hands, they still weren’t ready to go. I decided to retire them while there were still in one piece rather then let them go completely to pot. This was when they earned their spot above the window.
After such exemplary service, there was no way I was going to buy any other brand. I cashed in a Birthday Present voucher with my mom and dragged her down to the only Redwing store I could find. That was about seven years ago. These 2238′s didn’t have the steel toe of the old ones, and somewhere along the way Redwing had starting incorporating cloth bits into the design, but they faired pretty well over the years since.
I must take this opportunity to remark upon how much I love the texture of good old leather. Unlike modern materials, it actually improves with age. I want my car seat upholstered with this stuff. I want my laptop bag made from it. When I break down and buy a really good mandolin, I’m calling up Whipping Post Leather and having them make me a case for it.
Alas, there are weak points in these new boots. The cloth that joins the tongue to the body of the boot gave up the ghost long ago, and my wife’s repair job has since been unrepaired by time and wear. The soles had long gone smooth. As you can see from the photo, they’d long since stopped being able to pass for ‘nice shoes’.
So I finally broke down and retired these too. I haven’t yet been able to throw them away. Be kind, I’m working up to it. I’m unsure about their replacements. After a long hard research online, I decided to give a new company a try, in a desperate attempt to snag some paratrooper style side-zips. I’m still in the breaking in process on these guys but I’m worried. I’ve had canvas sided boots before and they just don’t last the same way leather does. Moreover, their soles are exceedingly thick. I suppose because they are ‘tactical’ boots, this is so I can kick in doors should the need arise, but for everyday use and driving in particular, this is less then ideal.
Maybe I’ll be back in a Redwing store in couple of weeks, returning like an old friend.
My Grandfather’s boots
My father’s father died when I was thirteen. It was the first family death I remember vividly. My maternal grandmother had died some years before, but I was young enough and the distance between my mother’s family and my own so great, that I cannot pick out any salient details about the event. My paternal grandparents lived in town, and their entire clan of children and grandchildren were no farther then the, admittedly expansive, borders of our home state. His death was sudden and happened at a time when I was cusping the point when a child begins to take really take part in such events. I spoke at the service and I remember the strange air about the family for quite some time afterward.
There’s a second sort of death for a person after the physical one, when objects of their life are moved, discarded, or repurposed; when the holes they leave behind are patched over, filled in, or left to heal. This second death can take years, decades, to fully happen, and may never really finish, but it is at its most active in the days or weeks following their laying to rest. One small aspect of this, for my grandfather, was the dispersal of his clothes.
I got a number of objects, a belt and some shirts amongst else, but the most important was his size 12, 8 inch work boots. These boots already had years of wear on them the before then went on my feet. In certain respects this counted against them: the soles were worn smooth since I got them and the wearer’s feet was subject to an uncomfortable but occasional poking from a bent steel toe. But in one factor it was a blessing; new boots are always uncomfortable, and never feet right until months of wear and tear has broken them in. These were easy to wear from day one. Wear them I did, off an on for seven years.
When my father and I rode motorcycles together, these were the boots I wore. They were the boots I learned to ride in. These were the boots I traipsed around parks in with my buddies and it was in these boots I returned later with the same buddies to play midnight games of laser tag. Sometime in high school, these became my de facto footwear and remained so until several years into my stint with higher education.
I don’t know how many years of abuse these boots took because I’m not sure how long they were worn before I got a hold of them. After seven years in my hands, they still weren’t ready to go. I decided to retire them while there were still in one piece rather then let them go completely to pot. This was when they earned their spot above the window.
I must take this opportunity to remark upon how much I love the texture of good old leather. Unlike modern materials, it actually improves with age. I want my car seat upholstered with this stuff. I want my laptop bag made from it. When I break down and buy a really good mandolin, I’m calling up Whipping Post Leather and having them make me a case for it.
Alas, there are weak points in these new boots. The cloth that joins the tongue to the body of the boot gave up the ghost long ago, and my wife’s repair job has since been unrepaired by time and wear. The soles had long gone smooth. As you can see from the photo, they’d long since stopped being able to pass for ‘nice shoes’.
Maybe I’ll be back in a Redwing store in couple of weeks, returning like an old friend.