Texpert in Training

“We’re from Texas.” Europeans say they are always rather surprised that, except for Texans, most Americans reply “U.S.A.” when asked where they’re from. 

Thinking back to all the places we’ve moved, Texas might be the only place where we felt embraced on arrival and much like country fried steak and cream gravy, we were only too happy to soak it up. 

Known as “The Friendly State,” Texans are approachable and welcoming, known to strike up a conversation just about anywhere. That explains a deep discussion with a beautiful, young waitress at Austin’s Lamberts Downtown Barbeque as to whether she should permanently remove any of her full body tattoos and a conversation with a breeder, at my first armadillo race, about his special rearing techniques. 

Neighborly seems to take on a new meaning here. Having resided in cities where eye contact was a novelty and neighbors’ names were a mystery, you quickly settle into a pleasant flow of greeting and conversing with everyone you meet, waving hello to each car that passes by and smiling a lot. Neighbors open their homes, their garages and their gardens to you and you, likewise return the favors, wondering why life wasn’t like this all along.

Don’t blame Texas for its boldness. It’s a big state (second largest after Alaska) and can’t help its outsized persona: big personalities, big trucks, big steaks. Suffice to say, there’s not much in the petite category here. 

There’s something unique about Texas and I’ve whole heartedly accepted its invitations to experience its distinctive vibe:

Chicken S**t Bingo
Where else can you spend a Sunday afternoon that includes chickens, chicken feed and what happens after chickens eat? The band was loud, the beer cold and the Little Longhorn Saloon was packed. The $2 ticket had a number on it and gave you one chance on the giant plywood bingo table. As luck would have it, the chicken left her “mark” on my number and I was the winner of $115 in cash!

Weird homes Tour
By the end of the day, we had driven 90 miles all-around Austin, exploring homes that put the “E” in eccentricity. Whether it was a series of domes rumored to have special healing powers or the royal blue cosmic room featuring a 100” flat-screen TV (most guys did not get past this point and just stood there, gaping at the TV), we were not sure if it was the police car hood with working sirens on the ceiling, the doll heads under glass, a hollowed-out armadillo holding guest towels or the enthusiastic homeowners that we’d remember the most.

We arrived at Indra’s Awarehouse for the after-party, a large metal roofed warehouse, filled to the brim with the owner’s art and collections of oddities. As scantily dressed acro-yoginis glided up yards of silk fabric and performed above our heads, we learned from the more adventurous guests that anything crunchy with a barbecue flavor (crickets and mealy worms) were edible after some of Austin’s handmade Tito’s Vodka. 

Live music
Famous for its music venues, you soon learn that whether it’s a renovated gas station, a timeworn dance hall or a bar; in Texas, an old wooden table, a band and some cold beer leads to toe tapping. Under the watchful eye of the sassy owner’s daughter, we took a dance class at The Broken Spoke (one of the aforementioned dance halls) and are now able to two-step alongside cowboys, wondering how we waited this long for a dose of honky-tonk. 

Food, fun and fame
The drive to HEB, the local grocery store, always puts a smile on my face. Passing the open fields on each side of the road, the only traffic you notice might be the cows vying for the same sweet spot of grass. 

Pronounced as H-E-B, it stands for Herbert E. Butt, its founder’s initials. Recently, HEB was named the top U.S. grocery store retailer by Dunnhumby, a global leader in data science (sorry, Trader Joes and Amazon!). With a Chief Medical Officer, a medical board and a pandemic plan already in place, once the coronavirus hit, they quickly contacted top retailers in China and Europe to gain insight as to how the illness had progressed and its effects on employees, the supply chain and shopping behavior. All this combined with its state shaped novelty items and locally sourced products, led many Texans to joke that maybe H.E.B. should run for President!

While I’m not sure that I was actually on the lookout for a state to call my own, I can honestly say that I’m in a blissful state of mind and feeling pretty comfortable in my cowboy hat and boots, ordering my BBQ “fatty,” making sure we have yearly tickets to the rodeo and even adding “Y’all” to a sentence now and then. 

While moving may come with its share of disappointments, my only regret is that our community association has put the nix on the Tuff Shed that I dreamed about in our backyard, a little haven that would’ve served as a writer’s retreat/guest house. Nevertheless, I have decided to use that fortitude that Texans are known for in order to research stealth technology, thereby making both any frustrations and the Tuff Shed less visible.

The Name Game

JC* looked lovingly at the photo of the cat. “If I foster Melrose, I think I’ll call her Rosie,” she said. “What?!” I exclaimed, trying hard to suppress my exactness and not get my dander up, “But, Melrose is her name. Won’t she be confused? Can you just do that?”

Then I remembered something. As a teenager, JC decided that she didn’t like her given name Joan; it was too plain and ordinary. She complained so much to her mother that all of sudden she started calling her daughter Joanne. The name seemed to stick and as she got older, JC  attached herself to her new name, driver’s license, passport and all. 

Meanwhile in Michigan around the same time, my mother-in-law wasn’t too keen on her name, Shirley. So just as quickly as JC, she started calling herself by her middle name, Patricia. In those simpler times, changing your name was as easy as saying “Hey, from now on, call me (insert new name here)”; no filing fees, no appearance before a court clerk and no FBI surveillance to worry about. 

My sister and I became curious. “Were there other names you were considering for us before we were born? we asked. Though it had been so many years ago, the stories were still vivid in JC’s mind. Each time, she had excitedly mentioned names to my dad and his family; Lola for me and Carmen for my sister. But, both times, my Latin grandmother shook her head no, gazing at her with those dark, almost black eyes that sparkled when she was happy and put a whole through you when she was not. 

Being young and respectful, JC didn’t question my grandmother’s nonverbal comments and with no command of the Spanish language, she thought it best to acquiesce. After all, maybe it was not in good taste to call a baby girl Lolita (in Spanish, adding “ita” to the end of a name is a form of endearment). 

This made me wonder; what’s in a name? Does a name make you who you are? Or, does who you are define your name? Will a Pointdexter grow up to be a nuclear space scientist? Did rock singer, Frank Zappa do a disservice to his children, Dweezil and Moon Unit, who might have had their hearts set on becoming the first brother/sister supreme court justices?  

“You would have made a great Carmen,” I said to my sister, “You have such a feisty, strong personality. “Likewise,” she said, “I could definitely see you as a Lola, living in Madrid and flamenco dancing your days away.”

It was then that my sister announced that on her 60thbirthday, she just might change her name to Carmen (legally, not the old-fashioned way) and may even dye her hair black. She has invited me to join her, but while the Lola in me throws her head back in abandon and laughingly says “Dale!” (Spanish for “Go for it!”), the Linda lurking inside me is logically considering weighing the pros and cons on an Excel spreadsheet.

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page

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Write or Wrong?

Go ahead; pick a day, any day going back to 1968 and I will tell you what was going on in my life. I’m a keeper of significantly insignificant information. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been systematizing my life with pen and paper. 

Some of my favorite keepsakes are my calendars. Starting with the free Hallmark giveaways and advancing to a Filofax, I’d take great pleasure in jotting down as much as could fit into those little squares. 

Then, there were the outfit lists. In junior high and high school, I would write down what I wore each day on a monthly form I had designed. Besides keeping me fashion forward, this may have also had something to do with helping me with my confidence level. 

Rereading some old journals recently brought back some wonderful, almost forgotten memories. What surprised me the most was the detail in which I wrote. 

As the New York salesperson for a housewares company, I prided myself on my notebook. Written in a code that my Dad had taught me where each number was assigned a letter, I had all the pertinent information about every account at my fingertips. In those pre-computer days, this was the equivalent of carrying around a file cabinet; invaluable. 

There I stood feeling confident, my notebook tucked under my arm, fully prepared and ready to meet with the Bloomingdales buyers in our company showroom during show week. Not known for their kind, approachable personalities, the entourage strutted in, dressed to kill in black, hiding behind their designer sunglasses. Even my boss, known for his jesting, quietly whispered a greeting, almost bowing in reverence to them. 

Yet to make eye contact, they settled in, calculators in hand in order to determine the 15% additional markup they would add to the retail price of each item (from that day forward, I never shopped at Bloomingdales again). Just as I was about to begin my presentation, I felt a tug on my precious notebook. 

It was Arnold Adler, the company’s leading salesperson. Famous in housewares industry circles, Arnold’s career had started 50 years ago as he rode trains across the country, selling his wares. I was fortunate that Arnold would take the time to mentor me whenever we would see each other, but on this day, all Arnold did was take the notebook from me and whisper “You really don’t need this.” There was no time to panic; any second I could lose the interest of my aloof audience. I continued on, obtained the order and never let them see me sweat.

I have Arnold to thank for reminding me that, while my writing might guide me through life, it should not become a crutch. Maybe my focus on organizing myself was just a way for my Type A personality to be slowly introduced to the A B C’s of writing, something that I enjoy to this day.

Times have changed and unfortunately, the month at a glance calendar on my iPhone, though ever so handy, leaves me no room for details, but I carry on. Still, nothing lights up my life like an excuse to prepare an Excel spreadsheet. Some might argue that these little projects of mine are time wasters, but to me they are quiet reminders, chronicling my life into little blocks of minutiae that only its creator could love. 

Oh, and if you’ve ever been invited to my home, all the way back to 1983, I can tell you what was on the menu.

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Me, Myself and I

Photo Me Myself I

“How was your day?” I asked. Facetiming each evening with JC* is something we both look forward to, especially now. “Great,” she responded. “I took a virtual tour of the Louvre, tested out my piloting skills on a free online flight simulator and I’m considering fostering a cat.” That’s my girl! Like mother, like daughter?

Being comfortable spending time alone, does not necessarily make you a loner. It enhances your vision of who you are and helps you to reconnect with yourself. Enjoying your own company helps you to cultivate your independent self.

The closing of all the gyms pushed me to get out and walk miles each morning. By 9:30 a.m., I’m back home, feeling sweatier and smarter. Thanks to Mobituaries, the podcast by CBS Sunday Morning correspondent and humorist Mo Rocca, I’ve been introduced to the fascinating life of Siamese twins Chang and Eng, along with others whose interesting stories did not die along with them. On the Condé Nast Women Who Travel podcast, I’ve learned what it takes to complete the Iditarod, captain a cruise ship and visit every country in the world, though knowing that the adventures discussed in the pre-recorded interviews would not be taking place was a bit unnerving.

The swimming pools in our community have just reopened. It’s worth getting up on Tuesdays at 6:30 a.m. in order to reserve a couple of morning spots. There’s nothing more serene than lap swimming; the sound of the water as your arms and legs move in a repetitive motion is so calming. On my birthday, I found just the right lounge chair after my swim and in my little cocoon (with a hat, sunglasses, mask and headphones on), treated myself to 30 minutes of listening to some of my favorite songs. I had a spring in my step for the rest of the day!

With no excuses or time constraints, this was the perfect time to concentrate on my writing. The initially intimidating blank computer screen, the blinking curser reminding me to focus and the series of words that seem to magically flow from my thoughts never gets old.

Rereading my blog posts and travel journals isn’t equivalent to traveling. Cooking is certainly not the same as a dining experience at a favorite restaurant. Maybe now is the time that I’m supposed to focus on my inside, rather than outside. Perhaps I should be grateful for the quiet and stillness that I’m experiencing. In a way, it’s energizing me, refueling my usual busy life with a dose of no expectations.

Enhance the power of that special relationship, the one that will never let you down and learn how to be your own best friend. Look deep inside and get to know yourself; it just might strengthen the life lines to everything you connect with.

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page

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Arkansas: The End

Photo Arkansas The End

Tourists enjoyed seeing  my employee and I dressed in “old timey” outfits

I didn’t let the rain deter me. Hoping tourists might consider this weather a good shopping day, I happily straightened up the displays in the store, put on the background music and unlocked the door. A young couple, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, came in almost immediately and took a keen interest in the Granny Chicken paintings. We chatted for a while and they said they’d be back later.

When they returned, they asked what kind of deal they could get if they bought all of her paintings. It added up to thousands of dollars (primitive art does not come cheap), so to show some goodwill (and because Granny Chicken had made most of the frames), I gave them a framing discount. A year later, we visited them in Carmel, California, and were awestruck as to how beautiful her art looked, professionally framed in their all white home and art gallery. (with even higher price tags on them).

Mr. Wiz* and I discovered some local, handmade iron products, tracked down the owner and set up a meeting. We negotiated to carry their product line on consignment and Mr. Wiz struck up a friendship with the owner. They started discussing him joining the company and soon after, Mr. Wiz became a partner. The joke around town was that he was the only partner that actually owned a suit. This came in handy when Mr. Wiz successfully secured the company’s first bank line of credit.

This was a real American success story. Stone County Ironworks was a one-man operation started in an old gas station. David, the owner and a self-proclaimed hippy (if you ever wondered where all the hippies went, it was Arkansas) slowly grew the company and was able to hire more blacksmiths. This was tough work and his staff looked like a group of Hells Angels, though they were the sweetest guys. In time, the company became the largest production blacksmith company in the United States and was listed in the Inc. 500, a listing of the top 500 fastest growing U.S. companies.

If all of this wasn’t exciting enough, after five years of married life and wondering if we’d ever become parents, I became pregnant. For this reason, Arkansas will always have a special place in my heart. Weighing in at 10 pounds, 1 ½ ounces, I found out later that if Big A* had been born in Baylor University Hospital, he would have received a full football scholarship.

I had a big decision to make. I loved Mountain View Mercantile, but realized that working 10 – 12 hours a day and motherhood did not mix. We wound up selling the building and the store to Stone County Ironworks and I began working for them part-time in public relations and marketing. My first assignment was to interview the owner, David, in order to enter him in the Arkansas Small Business Person of the Year contest. Very shy and close mouthed, it wasn’t easy to get him to open up, but in the end, he shared just enough so that his story won him the honor. Soon, he’d be off to Washington, D.C. and return home with the second runner-up national award.

With products too heavy for shipping, the Ironworks had a fleet of trucks to travel to trade shows. The blacksmiths welded a special seat up front for Big A’s car seat and off we’d go together, traveling across the United States. Mr. Wiz laughs now to think how he would set up the trade show booths with Big A on his back in a baby carrier.

It was when Big A turned two that we started thinking of the future. The Arkansas schools were rated No. 48 and though we got our fill of traveling and dining out on the road, there would probably come a time when we’d have to settle down. Mountain View had no restaurants to speak of, even the little movie theater closed up in the winter and Little Rock was two hours away.

After many family meetings, we decided to head back to a city, but rather than let a job lead us, Mr. Wiz suggested we chose the city first and then he’d find a job there. We settled on Chicago and as luck would have it, his first phone call to an old friend landed Mr. Wiz a position helping him run his new company.

Though that was so many years ago, I never forgot that little town and still keep in touch with some of the people there. It was small enough so that I wasn’t intimidated to follow my dreams, large enough to show me how important living in a close-knit community was and just quirky enough to make for some great memories.

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

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Arkansas: The Middle

Photo Arkansas Middle 1A

Our store, Mountain View Mercantile (originally he O.R. Case Building) by Granny Chicken

The old pickup truck stopped to let me cross the street. The two passengers smiled and waved to me. Though I had never met these two men, I returned the wave and the smile, as I heard the driver yell out his window “Hey, Linda- If you need anything while your hubby is out of town next week, you just holler at us.” Feeling as if I was living on the movie set of Mayberry, along with Andy, Opie and Aunt Bee, I had officially settled into small town living.

I can honestly say that I never once was afraid to stay in that large building all by myself. Even on dark, rainy nights, I felt as if someone had their arms around me. Granny Chicken said that was probably Mr. O.R. Case, the building’s owner, who was glad it was being looked after.

Named by her grandson since she was the grandma with the chickens, Granny Chicken was a local artist who painted in the primitive style. A bit eccentric and dressed in her signature print dress and straw hat, she wandered into the store one afternoon. Having just read about her in a tourism publication, we struck up a conversation and made a date to meet for lunch. Soon after, I took a crash course in primitive art, started carrying her art on consignment in the store and became her agent.

Together, we traveled to events sponsored by the Department of Parks and Tourism to promote the Ozarks and Mountain View. Granny turned out to be more connected than I had imagined. She introduced me to then Governor Clinton and his family at the Governor’s mansion. At Winrock Farms, the Rockefeller estate, we clapped along as Winthrop Rockefeller sat on a bale of hay and played the spoons, but not before he had welcomed her personally. I remember thinking that the folks back home will never believe this.

It seemed that whatever I needed would just appear. Pouring over old books in the local library, I found just the right logo for the store. Hoping to find some original recordings back from the building’s era, I was surprised to find a collector of vintage music sitting against the building playing just such music and happy to sell me some tapes. Complete with that authentic tinny sound, it made for wonderful background music in the store. I was surprised when, out of the blue, a packaging salesman walked into the store asking if I needed any supplies. Keeping with the theme and my budget, I stamped my logo on brown bags and used bright colored tissue paper and rope as gift wrap.

Between the local cast of characters dropping in (my favorite was the local baker, a New York transplant, who resembled Woody Allen) and the tourists visiting, every day was an adventure. Students from the Soviet Union and China, soil and conservation experts from Morocco, Africa and South America and groups of senior RVers; you never knew what to expect.

Living in a tourist town did have its benefits. Visitors were upbeat, the small community supported each other and, together, worked hard to put their best foot forward. Somewhere between the advice of the other store owners (open when you want, close when you’ve had enough) and my methodical personality, I found my rhythm and enjoyed the ride.

Photo Arkansas Middle 2

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Arkansas: The Beginning

Photo Arkansas Beginning

Mountain View, Arkansas, (population: two thousand one hundred forty seven) was not on the way to anywhere else. You must travel into the winding mountains of the Ozarks to get there. The small town with its historic buildings, built of Arkansas stone and clustered around the Courthouse Square appeared to be frozen in time. Yet, there was a pulse and vitality you could feel.

Most every day, you’d hear music; mandolins, fiddles, dulcimers, guitars. It’s a long-standing tradition that musicians gathered anytime, day or night, and played together on the square. Known as the “Folk Music Capital of the World,” Mountain View was home to musical events such as the National Fiddler’s Competition.

My eyes shut tightly, Mr. Wiz* excitedly escorted me out of the car. I opened my eyes to find him standing in front of a large decrepit stone building, as he explained that the almost eight thousand square feet was once home to a car dealership. Since the wood furniture company Mr. Wiz was running was renting it as a warehouse, he wondered what I would think of trying a little experiment.

What if we cleaned up the first floor and displayed some of the wood products to sell during the upcoming festival? Based on the sales, we might consider buying the building and creating a retail store. What the heck; we had already moved there from Chicago and back then, we were ready for an adventure.

We got right to work, scraping off the black paint that covered the front picture windows and sweeping up the dirt and dust. Just as I was worrying what we might do to hide the large holes in the walls, a shy woman peeked in to say that she was looking for a place to display her handmade quilts during the festival. We made a deal, strung them up on clotheslines, put together some samples of the outdoor furniture (porch swings, Adirondack chairs, etc.) and were open for business.

The three-day Bean Festival brought over fifty thousand visitors to the little town to enjoy the famous outhouse parade, to taste the beans simmering in the big black cauldrons over an open fire in order to judge the best recipe and to play music on the courthouse square. Our cash and carry experiment was an overwhelming success and soon after, we became the proud owners of the O.R. Case building.

Built in 1928, we were excited to return this National Historic Register building to its original glory days. Even the old dust and dirt that stuck to our clothes, as we did some prep work before the construction crew started, couldn’t dampen our spirits.

It is said that because Arkansas rests on diamond mines there is a mystical aura around it. This not only explained the quilter showing up at just at the right time, but also a continuing series of events that to this day, still has me scratching my head in disbelief.

To be continued…

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

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What Would Rosie the Riveter Do?

Photo Rosie the Riveter 1Photo Rosie the Riveter 2Photo Rosie the Riveter 2

Crossing the days off the calendar, not knowing when my hairdresser and I would be able to resume our relationship again left me frustrated. Well into quarantining, I arose one morning and started the day laughing, as I glanced at myself in the mirror. With uncontrollable curls now standing high all over my head, all I could think of was that I looked like Bozo the Clown’s illegitimate daughter. Thinking quickly, I gathered up my hair and harnessed those stubborn ringlets with a red bandana. “Good morning, Rosie the Riveter,” Mr. Wiz* said with a smile, as he kissed me.

During World War II, Rosie the Riveter was the star of a campaign to recruit female workers for male jobs in the defense industry, as men went off to war. In May 1943, Norman Rockwell celebrated those heroic women with his iconic painting on the cover of The Saturday Evening Post and people hummed the catchy tune of a popular song dedicated to Rosie.

One of Westinghouse Electric’s wartime posters coined the phrase “We can do it!” along with Rosie’s picture to encourage women to join the labor force. The poster was only displayed for two weeks, until another replaced it. Rosie enjoyed a resurgence in the 1980s due to the 40thanniversary of World War II, the National Archives allowing licensing rights and the push for women’s rights.

Who was Rosie the Riveter? According to history.com, she was 20-year-old Naomi Parker, whose photo was snapped by a photographer as she worked in a machine shop at the Naval Air Station in Alameda, California. Naomi’s secret identity was finally revealed when she was 94 years old and she was able to enjoy the recognition until she died two years later.

Lately I’ve been thinking: what would Rosie do? If she were here now, she would make the best of her situation, just as she always had. She would help any way she could. She would be grateful for what she had during this difficult time, rather than gripe about what she was missing. She would look at the gift of time as a blessing.

I am riveted by Rosie, her story and her moxie.

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

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Thank Those Lemons, Then Make Limoncello    

Photo Lemons Limoncllo

I spent most of my 13th year of life in our family bathroom, crying. Back then, things just never seemed to work out as I had planned. Boyfriend angst, girlfriend drama, body issues, academic concerns, shyness, lack of confidence; I had no idea how to deal with my struggles.

JC* and my Dad took turns talking to me out of earshot of my three young siblings, for my sake and probably for the sake of the family, since that house only had one bathroom. JC would regale me with stories of her childhood and how she and her independent streak would band together and seem to overcome any obstacles. My Dad would remind me how the army had built him back up, giving him the determination to set goals that might have seemed out of reach to others and one by one, accomplish them.

Hoping I had inherited the best of my parents’ personalities, it was in my 16th year that I ventured entirely out of my comfort zone and entered a modeling contest at the local upscale teen fashion shop. Excited to be able to choose my wardrobe, it turned out that my first and second choices were not in my size. When the knowledgeable saleslady steered me over to my correct size, which was a bit larger, I thought it must be a mistake; it wasn’t.

I didn’t win, but I remember the owner telling me I had a nice smile. So, the next day when I went shopping for boots and the salesman told JC that I had large calves (I was sitting right there), I realized I had a big decision to make; I could see myself with large calves or a nice smile and I chose the latter. As it turned out, the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree. I had succeeded in taking my first step toward Lemonade 101.

A love lost that steered me toward my true partner. A career change that sparked my creativity. A move that landed me where I belonged. Tears that made me appreciate every smile. Maladies that helped me to celebrate life. When I think back to the disappointments that have engulfed me over the years, I can reflect and see clearly how the increasingly positive attitude I was developing, encouraged me to squeeze all I could out of a situation and then mix it with what new possibilities lie ahead.

As I mature, I like to think that in the big lemonade stand of life, I have graduated to Limoncello and created a more sophisticated version of myself, drinking in experiences, with pinky up, sipping at an outdoor café and confident in the knowledge that the end is usually just a new beginning.

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

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Sole Searching

Photo HIking Boots

Me and my Merrell Moab Ventilators in Villafranca del Bierzo, Spain

Let’s just say that I am not known for my sports prowess and leave it at that. It wasn’t until 2016 that I finally found my sport; walking! Standing at the top of that mountain, after trying on my first hiking boots gave me a wonderful sense of exhilaration. And as I stepped down from the four-foot, plaster mountain in the shoe department of the REI store, I felt downright giddy.

Thus, began an intimate relationship with my hiking boots. I remember those first few awkward days as we got to know each other. I’d tie them over and over, trying for a not too tight, but not too loose a fit. I broke them in, walking the city streets of Chicago. Little did they know that they were soon destined to walk 500 miles through Spain on the Camino de Santiago, the 1000- year-old route to the Shrine of the Apostle St. James in northern Spain’s medieval city of Santiago de Compostela.

Skittish at first of the uphills, downhills, rocky terrain and water crossings, I finally settled into a rhythm whereby my boots seemed to be leading me. They helped me to define my comfort zone. I likened this to a car with new tires and the confidence you feel as their traction assists you in navigating the road.

If those boots could talk! They’ve staggered through rainstorms, forced to listen to us taking turns singing Broadway show tunes to pass the time, then left overnight, stuffed fat with newspaper. They’ve been caked in mud and sat alone, not allowed entry into our hotel room. Regardless, they always know that once they arrive home, they will be well scrubbed and placed on their side in their original shoebox, toe to heel, until their next adventure.

Lately, circumstances have dictated that those boots become a basic necessity, once again, as I walk miles each day. Whatever the weather (or my temperament), as soon as I fit my foot snugly into each one, I feel a sudden sense of exhilaration. It’s amazing what can go on while your feet are moving. The recurring sound of my boots hitting the pavement, crunching leaves or trudging through dirt paths, creates a Zen backdrop.

Ever the shoe lover, I must confess that even the pride and joy of my collection, my Allen Edmonds brown and white spectators, don’t give me the lift that my boots do. My hiking boots may seem like the ugly duckling compared to their classic elegance, but they serve their purpose and serve it well.

Thankful that I have finally outgrown my 30 years of clumsiness, I welcome this new phase of my life, resigned to let my feet lead the way and take one step at a time.

 

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