Boots

Grandpa Was a Dancing Fool

When my Grandpa Roscoe and his brothers were young, they never missed the rare opportunity to attend a dance or church social, no matter how hard they’d been working on the farm. They’d work like mad all week to get through in time to ride out to any barn-dance,corn-husking, or hoe-down set for Saturday night.  One fine evening, his brother George was laid up with a broken leg, so Grandpa slipped off in George’s brand new boots, reckoning he’d cut a much finer figure in them than in his old brogans.   After all,  there was no reason the boots should miss all the fun.  The rest of the boys piled in the wagon, riding off into the night, bound for a rollicking good time. This left the sorrowful George at home with Ma, Pa, and the young’uns.


Roscoe danced every dance, not leaving out a girl between eight and eighty, who’d allow herself to be jollied around the floor. His good time was reinforced by the jug he and his brothers had thoughtfully hidden beneath the hay in their wagon. After all, the horses knew the way home and they didn’t have to work tomorrow.  George’s boots were feeling tight, but so was he, so he wasn’t in too much pain right then.  It was two-thirty before they left, long after the last ear of corn was husked, the last girl rounded up by her pa, and the last note of banjo and fiddle music drifted to the rafters.  The boys piled into the wagon, gave the horses their head and slept their way home.

By the time they got the horses settled in and were headed for their own beds, Roscoe’s toe, freed of the agonizing tight boot, was screaming its complaints. Likely, his decision-making wasn’t the best that night, but he got out his pocket-knife and whittled his in-grown toenail, making the problem exponentially worse. He wrapped the agonized toe in a rag soaked in high-alcohol liniment Ma had bought from a traveling snake-oil peddler the week before. Then he propped his foot on a chairback high above his head, and lay on the hearth, before the fire to soothe its throbbing.  Finally comfortable, he nodded off.

Aware of the smell of smoke, and fearing he had died and gone to his reward for dancing and drinking, he awoke to find a spark from the fireplace had ignited the rag on his toe.   Dancing a wild jig, he struggled to rip the flaming bandage from his torch of a toe. Never mind about music or a partner!

Lady, Your Kid’s Stuck in the Ditch

A dispassionate young boy pounded on my front door. Looking at me dully, he announced. “Lady, your kid’s stuck in the ditch.” I wasn’t expecting that on a cold, rainy morning. The city had been installing a new sewer system. As soon as the ditches were deeply excavated the rain started. It rained and rained and rained. The ditches ran like a river. My five-year-old, John, hadn’t been out for days. Finally, the weather cleared.

John was desperate to get out. I made a bad decision, agreeing to let him play on the carport with a box of toy parts. I checked on him every few minutes, glad to see him deeply involved in his favorite pastime, disassembling his toys and building something else with the random parts. In combination with an erector set, this could occupy him for hours. His dog, as always, was at his side.

Then, I decided to vacuum, my second bad decision, hence the pounding on the door. The kid pointed to the overflowing ditches where John stood, thigh-high in the deep running water. His little dog was running up and down the ditch, barking desperately. Horrified, I flew out and grabbed his arms, trying to pull him out. He was stuck! What on earth? I waded in, braced myself, grabbing him under the arms and tugged. With a strange sucking noise he broke loose. We both rolled backwards in the muck. Instead of relief at being rescued, John wailed,”Daddy’s boots! Get Daddy’s boots!” There was no getting those boots stuck deep in that muddy ditch. It turns out, John had helped himself to his dad’s knee boots, sure he’d be able to ford the ditch. Retrieving them was his major concern.

All’s well that ends well. My kid survived being stuck in the “ditch.” About four days later, Bud took a shovel and dug his boots out of the mud.

Dirty Trick

As we walked across the Walmart parking lot this afternoon, my husband of forty-five years, Bud, pointed out my loose bootlace. I had no intention of bending over in the parking lot to tie it, so replied, “I have a backache.  I’ll tie it later.”

Bud couldn’t deal with the idea of the flopping shoelace, so he rolled his eyes and grumped,  “You can’t walk around like that.  You’ll break your danged neck.  Stand still.  I’ll tie it!”

With that, he dropped down on one knee to tie it, just as a couple of guys walked by, obviously wondering what was going on.

I couldn’t pass up this opportunity, spouting,  “No, I won’t marry you!  Now get up!”

Jody’s Name Was Mud

It usually took two or three tries to get Jody out of bed on schooldays, but weekends were a totally different story.  He was always up before daylight watching cartoons.  He wasn’t supposed to go outdoors before Mom and Dad got up but today, it was impossible to resist.  Rain had been coming down all week, so the ditches were muddy rivers, a perfect Continue reading →

Grandpa Was a Dancing Fool

toe on fire0006

When my Grandpa Roscoe and his brothers were young, they never missed the rare opportunity to attend a dance or church social, no matter how hard they’d been working on the farm. They’d work like mad all week to get through in time to ride out to any barn-dance, Continue reading →