My Boots

     I love shoes. Sandals, dress shoes, boots. Heels or flats, I love them all. But I love boots most of all, I think. And of all the boots I have, there is one pair I love more than any other. The heel is a nice 2 inch, or more, height, but, due to the chunky heel or the way they're made, they don't feel like heels. They fit my feet like they were made for them and somehow make me feel empowered when I wear them. Magic boots!
     But they're ancient, in boot years, and they show their age, if you look closely. The leather is cracked where it has flexed countless times and the cracks have to be camouflaged with black marker. Also, the lining is pretty much gone from the inside, and if I walk through a puddle or wet snow, my feet get a little wet.  I know I should retire them, but I can't! I love them too much. No other boots make me feel quite so invincible and, try as I might, I can't find another pair like them anywhere, for any price.
     I know that someday I'll be out running errands and it will happen. My boots will retire themselves, coming apart at their seams and leaving me with only the soles amid ragged pieces of worn leather. Until that day, though, despite all my insisting I'll throw them out, I know I'll keep putting those boots on (carefully) and going out to take on the world!

Connecting with the past

     I went to my local library today. I had a couple books to return and there was a book being held for me, my email said.  While I was there, I decided to see if a book I had on my wish list was in. It was! Into the crook of my arm it went. And here was another I wanted to read! I couldn't let it stay behind.  At the desk I asked for the book being held and - surprise! - she brought two books! One had just come in that day.  Bonus!  I checked them out and as I left the library with a stack of 3 books and a book on cd, I was hit with the same giddy feeling I used to get when leaving the library in the town of my youth, books in hand, new people, places and adventures stretching out before me.
     Why did I have such a unique feeling? I'm an adult and I can, and do, get books from all sorts of places; borrowed from friends, ordered online or bought at a bookstore. And I've got shelves of books at home, just waiting to be read. But none of those aquisitions or sight of books to be read, pleasant as they may be, feels the same as the one I get I when getting books from the library. Why, I wondered.
     Maybe, it's just being at a library. People are nicer there. Quiet and friendly, but reserved and willing to let each other just . . . be. I could roam the stacks for hours, if I wanted, and no one would hover over me, asking if they can help me, or trying to get me to look at books they think I'd like, (and telling me "this would look good on you".)  I feel at home there, and it's a nice feeling.
     Or perhaps it is because getting books from the library connects me with that younger me who relied on the library to provide me with fresh books. It awakens in me the enjoyment I got searching the shelves for the newest book from a favorite author, or finding a new author to read, and going home with my arms laden, knowing I had a month's worth of friends and adventures ahead of me.
     Of course, with my aging eyes, the stack in my arms is not as large - what once took me a day or two to read, now takes me more like a week, but the kid is still in there, and the feeling stays the same.   

Childhood is not what it used to be

I had what I think of as an idyllic childhood. It was the late '50's - early 60's and I think it was the best time to be a kid. My neighborhood was full of kids to play with, most moms were at home, and on nice summer days we'd be out the door as soon as we could eat and dress. We'd play games - both traditional, like Tag and Red Rover, and ones we made up, like Movie Star, or we'd hit the swing set, swinging as high as we could go, then letting go of the chains and flying into space!  Or we'd hit the streets, strapping on those metal roller skates with the grabber things you adjusted with a key (and which never stayed on your shoes), or our trusty bikes, heading out in packs to roam the neighborhoods and have adventures our moms never knew about.  Or sometimes we'd just lay around on the grass, watching clouds or bugs, scratching our mosquito bites and discussing such deep topics as "What'll we do now?", or "If we have enough money between us, we could ride to the mall and get some candy."
Some days, we would walk or bike to the elementary school where there was a jungle gym to climb on, bigger swings, and board games like checkers (both Chinese and regular) and that beans on a board game.

Those were the days. No one worried about kidnapping or germs. We went where we wanted, drank from the hose when thirsty and ate grass and dirt. We settled our fights ourselves, wore our scrapes and scabs like badges and only went in to grab lunch, or if the bleeding didn't stop.
We'd play all day until the chorus of mothers calling kids in to dinner began. Then we'd part ways for the evening, calling our good byes and making plans to meet up the next day, because, in that perfect world and time, there was always a never-ending stream of "next days" to fill.

At least that's how I remember it.