Boots and Newpapers

Unlike many women who obsess about shoes and handbags, I own only one pair of winter boots. I wear my Blundstones on occasion when it isn’t too cold but, of late, they just don’t have

Kodiaks and Blundstones

the insulative quality that I’m looking for in a winter boot. Kodiaks do. This is the first time I’ve owned winter boots with laces. And probably the last. They are too fussy to get on and off, I find.

And yet, with my commitment to a simpler life, I’m determined to make do with these boots for at least the balance of this winter. They are warm, they grip the ice and snow well – kinda like snow tires – and are relatively leak-proof. The laces are a pain in the ass because they get wet with the salt runoff and then stiffen into a board-like state, making them almost impossible to do up.  When they get wet, the laces also swell up and get caught in the eyelets which, as you can see from Photo Exhibit A, has subsequently caused the laces to come apart, with the outer sleeve tearing away from the inner core. Unacceptable.

I have taken as long as 10 minutes to get my boots on this winter, fiddling with laces that won’t move through eyelets and generally getting exasperated. This is also unacceptable. I dropped into a dollar store yesterday to pick up some new laces, and here is really where my story begins.

As I was coming home from the store with the laces, I was picturing how I’d like to sit comfortably inside by the fireplace, perhaps with a cup of something nice, and rip out the nasty old laces and put in the thinner, sleeker new laces that won’t cause me so much trouble. In my mind, I could see myself seated on the couch, boots on a few layers of old newspapers, old laces coming out, music in the background, coffee by my side … hold on … wait a sec …

I do not own any old newspapers.

Frankly, my mother would be appalled at the fact that my house does not have in it, somewhere, a stack of recently purchased, thoroughly read, occasionally chopped up (coupons and articles removed), scribbled on, slightly crumpled newspapers. Because of our routine with newspapers, Mom would cover our kitchen table regularly with a colourful rubbery plastic tablecloth cover, secured below with a staple gun. (Clearly, Mom wasn’t as precious about her table as I am about her bowl.) This table cover would quickly develop a greyish dull film on it in the spot where she, and I, would pour over the newspaper. Once finished, the newspaper, now broken into sections, subsections and occasionally wimpy surviving pages, would be roughly folded and added to the top of the pile of previously enjoyed newspapers. These newspapers then moved on into a rich second life. Most were used as impromptu floor coverings. On the farm, people were constantly coming in and out the back door, four seasons a year, with VERY mucky boots. If it was a quick trip, to grab some useful thing from inside, the most efficient way to get in and out without making a huge mess on the floor was to grab a stack of papers, make a trail to where you needed to go, and carry on, making sure one always kept one’s feet on the papers. If there was a potluck or church dinner and something hot was being taken there, like a casserole, it got wrapped securely in newspapers. Mom swore by using crumpled newspapers to clean windows, claiming that they were the only thing to leave windows streak free. She may have been right about that actually, but I do remember my hands being black after our window cleaning sessions.

We were all well-trained to take newspapers from the bottom of the pile, not the top – in case there was something useful that we needed from the most recent edition of the newspaper.

If I had a newspaper handy, I’d take a picture of it and put it right here. But I do not. Haven’t for ages.

Why? Well, the Internet versions don’t make my hands as black as the hard copy does. But, in truth, I go and read single newspaper articles, usually that are forwarded to me. This is different than sitting down, purposefully, daily, and thumbing through a document that tells me what happened and what some people think about what happened. And Ann Landers (RIP). And Peanuts. And the horoscope. It is a simple pleasure, and as much as I miss it, I think subscribing again would be a mistake. I can’t imagine when I’d have time, every day, to do this.

I could make time on Sundays, occasionally, for a juicy weekend edition of something. Besides, one never knows when one might need to change the laces on one’s boots, or take a casserole to a friend’s party. I should have some newspapers around … just in case.