Well, it’s been a long hot summer, and there were many times when I just knew what the hog felt like when he was about to render lard. For the most, part I’ve had to work every day of it, but on a few Saturdays, when I was off, I made it a point to go to the local yard sales. This is my favorite way of stimulating the local economy.
At first, I just expected to find a few movies on DVD or some rusty hand tools that I could put back to work, but by summers end I had acquired a wide selection of treasures.
I am a woodworker, so finding a barely used Deluxe Workmate for $10 had special appeal. From the dollar menu, I found a backsaw, a hayfork bent into a potato hook, a variety of new hinges and a few clock inserts for making table top clocks.
I saved a broken vanity seat from almost certain demise for one dollar. I reassembled it, refinished it and replaced the seat covering. It is now waiting to be “adopted” at one of the Main Street antique shops.
I found book bargains like the LIFE book Century of Change, America in Pictures 1900-2000, a $60 hardback, for which I paid one dollar.
One of my favorite finds was an issue of Scribner’s Magazine, dated April 1897, which features a detailed account on ocean crossings, 15 years before Titanic, with ads for typewriters, the latest tonics and the newest rage, the bicycle. I paid all of $.25 for this, as was the original subscription price.
Of course, there are always those little things that, as one lady put it, “You just can’t live without”, like small glass bottles with cork stoppers, a carousel Christmas music box, a 1920’s forgotten photo of a group of men standing on a raft, and a few small dishes that I used to find in oatmeal when I was a kid. My wife paid a one dollar ransom for a nice set of 4 Christmas mugs that will serve up steaming hot cocoa this winter.
I expect someday to find one of my oil painting from the 1980’s and buy it back for a fraction of my original commission. I’m not so sure that would be a good thing.
Sometimes the best part of a yard sale is the people you meet, old friends you might have lost tract of, or new friends with common interests. We exchange pleasantries, ideas on backyard décor and maybe a few bits of pocket change for things they thought was worth selling and that I thought was worth buying.
“How much you got on that box of hammers?”
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Radio Bye-Bye
I was probably around 10 years old when my older bother and I were introduced to the then expanding world of radio communication. Our Grandfather, who operated the local John Deere dealership, was in constant communication with his mechanics when they were out on service calls via CB radio.
In those days, the CB craze had not yet caught on and it was important to maintain the correct etiquette of professionalism of the day. There was no “Rubber Duck”, no “Pig Pen”, no “Smoky” and no “Bandit”. Grandpa’s call letters were KLK6645 and that’s what he answered to, along with “base” when talking from the shop.
One Christmas, Jerry and I received a pair of walky-talkies. This was a prime example of modern technology and a real handy gadget for two boys prone to playing “army” around the neighborhood. On days when the weather was just right we could sometimes hear the local CB people with their usual numbers coded banter.
We marveled at what great fun it would be if only we could only talk to Grandpa, just up the road using our walky-talkies. All we really needed was just a little more power.
One of us, and it may never be known exactly who, decided to replace the 9-volt battery in the back of one of the radios with a significantly increased power supply. We used an old cord and plug and wired into the battery terminals and we were “go” for launch. Jerry pushed the plug into the wall receptacle under the desk in our bedroom.
The house system quickly pointed out our folly by sending a series of supernovas dancing across the floor followed by a scaled down model of a hydrogen bomb explosion rising above the radio and rolling off of the ceiling. We had not officially learned to cuss at that time, but new words were definitely forming.
The wall plug had already self-ejected and the smoke was beginning to clear when we noticed that the small fan in the room had stopped. We tried the ceiling light and then the lights in some of the other rooms and found that half of the house was down. We knew this would mean big trouble.
We quickly got the fuses replaced, got the lights back on then cleared the remaining smoke out though the bedroom window. I picked up the non-radio active remains and discovered that the radio that was just sacrificed to the Gods of 10-4 was, in fact, mine.
I don’t remember feeling particularly bad about this though, I think largely because I knew that the other radio might just as well have been vaporized too, since one walky-talky has almost no use without the other one.
Though we never did get the chance to hale Grandpa’s call letters, somewhere during that white-hot instant, the faint sound of two boys yelling is thought to have crackled the airways on a radio in a capsule named Mercury.
Of course, NASA would have called this a “glitch”.
In those days, the CB craze had not yet caught on and it was important to maintain the correct etiquette of professionalism of the day. There was no “Rubber Duck”, no “Pig Pen”, no “Smoky” and no “Bandit”. Grandpa’s call letters were KLK6645 and that’s what he answered to, along with “base” when talking from the shop.
One Christmas, Jerry and I received a pair of walky-talkies. This was a prime example of modern technology and a real handy gadget for two boys prone to playing “army” around the neighborhood. On days when the weather was just right we could sometimes hear the local CB people with their usual numbers coded banter.
We marveled at what great fun it would be if only we could only talk to Grandpa, just up the road using our walky-talkies. All we really needed was just a little more power.
One of us, and it may never be known exactly who, decided to replace the 9-volt battery in the back of one of the radios with a significantly increased power supply. We used an old cord and plug and wired into the battery terminals and we were “go” for launch. Jerry pushed the plug into the wall receptacle under the desk in our bedroom.
The house system quickly pointed out our folly by sending a series of supernovas dancing across the floor followed by a scaled down model of a hydrogen bomb explosion rising above the radio and rolling off of the ceiling. We had not officially learned to cuss at that time, but new words were definitely forming.
The wall plug had already self-ejected and the smoke was beginning to clear when we noticed that the small fan in the room had stopped. We tried the ceiling light and then the lights in some of the other rooms and found that half of the house was down. We knew this would mean big trouble.
We quickly got the fuses replaced, got the lights back on then cleared the remaining smoke out though the bedroom window. I picked up the non-radio active remains and discovered that the radio that was just sacrificed to the Gods of 10-4 was, in fact, mine.
I don’t remember feeling particularly bad about this though, I think largely because I knew that the other radio might just as well have been vaporized too, since one walky-talky has almost no use without the other one.
Though we never did get the chance to hale Grandpa’s call letters, somewhere during that white-hot instant, the faint sound of two boys yelling is thought to have crackled the airways on a radio in a capsule named Mercury.
Of course, NASA would have called this a “glitch”.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Backyard Ups and Downs
In my teens, I climbed to the tops of trees to enjoy the view and to feel the world swinging in the wind. I was aware of the presence of gravity and, of course, felt immune to it. It was a special moment to be alive.
Now, at age 55, the physics have changed. Last fall I leaned a ladder against a tall maple in my yard to cut down a hanging limb leftover from the ice storm. The distance from the ground to the top rung was twenty feet, but the view from that top rung to the ground was closer to 75 and I certainly wasn’t interested in the swaying effect.
I climbed up the ladder and stood precariously on the rung second from the top. Putting a chokehold on the tree trunk, I nervously sawed through the limb with a small handsaw. I watched the limb fall away, like Wylie Coyote, disappearing into the desert floor. When the limb bumped the bottom of the ladder, I dropped the saw and went for the double chokehold on the tree trunk. Visions of insurance policies and long-term recovery flashed through my head.
Despite my initial unwillingness to release the tree, I did eventually manage to climb down. It occurred to me that there, standing on the ground looking up, while pulling the bark from under my fingernails, was yet another special moment to be alive.
It’s springtime now and most of the significant busted limbs are down from the trees and I am concentrating on more “down to Earth” projects.
I decided to repaint an old metal yard chair, a veteran of many a back yard campfire and a dependable step-up for a guy who’s sometimes too lazy to get out a ladder.
This chair had the peelings of maybe 26 different coats of paint, the colors of which, none would be considered for this particular facelift as I decided to go with a nice bright safety yellow, something festive for my classic “Whatever‘s out there” yard décor collection.
It’s a little rough in texture, but looks good with my John Deere windmill and red painted bluebird house. And though it may someday be the finest piece on the scrap wagon, it’s safe for now and waits near the ever-extending ladder to see if I want to get dangerously up in the world or just hold on to my iced tea and simply sit down.
Well, right now, the chair sits pretty good.
Now, at age 55, the physics have changed. Last fall I leaned a ladder against a tall maple in my yard to cut down a hanging limb leftover from the ice storm. The distance from the ground to the top rung was twenty feet, but the view from that top rung to the ground was closer to 75 and I certainly wasn’t interested in the swaying effect.
I climbed up the ladder and stood precariously on the rung second from the top. Putting a chokehold on the tree trunk, I nervously sawed through the limb with a small handsaw. I watched the limb fall away, like Wylie Coyote, disappearing into the desert floor. When the limb bumped the bottom of the ladder, I dropped the saw and went for the double chokehold on the tree trunk. Visions of insurance policies and long-term recovery flashed through my head.
Despite my initial unwillingness to release the tree, I did eventually manage to climb down. It occurred to me that there, standing on the ground looking up, while pulling the bark from under my fingernails, was yet another special moment to be alive.
It’s springtime now and most of the significant busted limbs are down from the trees and I am concentrating on more “down to Earth” projects.
I decided to repaint an old metal yard chair, a veteran of many a back yard campfire and a dependable step-up for a guy who’s sometimes too lazy to get out a ladder.
This chair had the peelings of maybe 26 different coats of paint, the colors of which, none would be considered for this particular facelift as I decided to go with a nice bright safety yellow, something festive for my classic “Whatever‘s out there” yard décor collection.
It’s a little rough in texture, but looks good with my John Deere windmill and red painted bluebird house. And though it may someday be the finest piece on the scrap wagon, it’s safe for now and waits near the ever-extending ladder to see if I want to get dangerously up in the world or just hold on to my iced tea and simply sit down.
Well, right now, the chair sits pretty good.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Workshop Trolls
My woodshop is my place of refuge. This is the place where dreams are manifested, where trees become cabinets and scraps become toys. I can also spend all day there doing nothing and at the end of the day have nothing to show for it. But I feel good about it and consider it time well wasted.
However, the older I get, the more I have to deal with a strange phenomena of misplaced tools. I don’t worry too much about an item that I might have used last month or last year, I find myself losing track of things that I am currently using on a project.
In my woodshop, a bright yellow tape measure has a bench life of about 30 minutes before it disappears within feet of me. Pencils last long enough to make about three lines for sawing.
To counter this, I try to keep a good half dozen tape measures and twice as many pencils on hand during any given wood project. When I have exhausted all of the replacements, it’s time to go in the house .
These illusive items are sometimes found later hidden between two boards or buried under the sawdust on the floor. These things and others often find themselves in my scrap bucket or even into the house, days later, covertly stashed into one of my sweatshirt pockets.
It’s almost as if there is a band of trolls hiding in the wood rack just waiting for me to turn my back so they can pull their tricks.
I suppose it could be a simple matter of forgetting but really, I pay very close attention and if I have actually forgotten anything in over fifty years, I certainly don’t remember it.
For verification, I will occasionally recall events or details with my wife, who will freely admit that we both naturally remember things differently, however, she will further point out that her version is always the correct one.
Well, I see the trolls have stashed a tape measure behind this computer. I am not letting go of the mouse.
However, the older I get, the more I have to deal with a strange phenomena of misplaced tools. I don’t worry too much about an item that I might have used last month or last year, I find myself losing track of things that I am currently using on a project.
In my woodshop, a bright yellow tape measure has a bench life of about 30 minutes before it disappears within feet of me. Pencils last long enough to make about three lines for sawing.
To counter this, I try to keep a good half dozen tape measures and twice as many pencils on hand during any given wood project. When I have exhausted all of the replacements, it’s time to go in the house .
These illusive items are sometimes found later hidden between two boards or buried under the sawdust on the floor. These things and others often find themselves in my scrap bucket or even into the house, days later, covertly stashed into one of my sweatshirt pockets.
It’s almost as if there is a band of trolls hiding in the wood rack just waiting for me to turn my back so they can pull their tricks.
I suppose it could be a simple matter of forgetting but really, I pay very close attention and if I have actually forgotten anything in over fifty years, I certainly don’t remember it.
For verification, I will occasionally recall events or details with my wife, who will freely admit that we both naturally remember things differently, however, she will further point out that her version is always the correct one.
Well, I see the trolls have stashed a tape measure behind this computer. I am not letting go of the mouse.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Big Game Hunting
A lot of folks will tell you that you have to be, as Elmer Fudd would say. “Verwy, verwy cwafty”, to get a deer. Well, I feel pretty crafty if I can miss a deer in the early morning hours on my way to work. It’s not as though I’m sneaking down the road in my stealthy bright red anti-camouflaged ford pick-up truck with the radio blaring.
It could very well be that these rascals simply know when we are not packing a weapon, and taunting us is somehow a kind of game for them: sort of like hunting.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I am all for the hunter and for all of the conservation reasons behind the sport, but really, is it as much of a challenge as it could be?
Consider this: I’m standing here looking out my back door at a yard full of shallow tunnels, mini-mountain ranges and mud piles, proof positive of an alien invasion. Any one who has ever tried to destroy this cloaked enemy of civilized landscape will tell you that there are few greater challenges in the predatory arena. It is an ongoing battle of winner takes all, to thwart the efforts of that lawn-tilling varmint: the mole.
One could go to the sporting goods store and spend a ridiculous amount of money so that he could look like a bush, but this prey does not need to see us, it feels us when we move.
I could get a high powered rifle with a big scope that can see Jupiter’s moons, but the mere discharge of that personal cannon can make cell phones all over the neighborhood automatically dial the police station. And if I miss, I’ve just dug another hole.
So I set traps, and I wait. And I wait… and I wait some more.
Occasionally, I score a direct hit, and when I do, I feel like throwing my kill onto the tailgate of my truck, and having my picture made for the newspaper with my orange hat and my garden hoe in hand.
So, my brother just got an eight-point buck.
Big deal. It’s not like getting a mole.
It could very well be that these rascals simply know when we are not packing a weapon, and taunting us is somehow a kind of game for them: sort of like hunting.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I am all for the hunter and for all of the conservation reasons behind the sport, but really, is it as much of a challenge as it could be?
Consider this: I’m standing here looking out my back door at a yard full of shallow tunnels, mini-mountain ranges and mud piles, proof positive of an alien invasion. Any one who has ever tried to destroy this cloaked enemy of civilized landscape will tell you that there are few greater challenges in the predatory arena. It is an ongoing battle of winner takes all, to thwart the efforts of that lawn-tilling varmint: the mole.
One could go to the sporting goods store and spend a ridiculous amount of money so that he could look like a bush, but this prey does not need to see us, it feels us when we move.
I could get a high powered rifle with a big scope that can see Jupiter’s moons, but the mere discharge of that personal cannon can make cell phones all over the neighborhood automatically dial the police station. And if I miss, I’ve just dug another hole.
So I set traps, and I wait. And I wait… and I wait some more.
Occasionally, I score a direct hit, and when I do, I feel like throwing my kill onto the tailgate of my truck, and having my picture made for the newspaper with my orange hat and my garden hoe in hand.
So, my brother just got an eight-point buck.
Big deal. It’s not like getting a mole.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Immortal Plastic
Plastic water bottles: 700 years in a landfill.
They make it sound like a bad thing, but the “problem” could turn out to be some kind of solution. In these modern times, so many products are not really made to last and soon have to be replaced. But there are a lot of things that could benefit greatly from a slow molecular breakdown.
Take paint for instance. Maybe we should grind up these plastic bottles to a powder and add it to paint. After your painted building finally rots away, one could be left with a huge 500-year-old tarpaulin with windows. You could just rebuild your structure and just throw on the old paint like a slipcover for another 200 years!
Roof shingles made from this immortal plastic would give a whole new meaning to “Lifetime Warranty”.
And there are all kinds of wood products that the salvaged plastic bottle could replace.
“Well Sonny, they say there was a factory somewhere that made stuff out of plastic bottles that they used to just throw away.”
“Really, Grandpa?”
“Sure. See that ancient fence row? Legend has it that those fence posts were set by your Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great…”
Sound unlikely?
Well, I remember when water first hit the market in plastic bottles. On a planet that is something like two-thirds water on the surface, it seemed silly at the time to think that people would actually buy something that they could get from the tap for free. But they did.
Personally, I’m hoping for something truly profound, like perpetual lawn chair webbing so I can avoid the yearly struggle to climb out after the seat drops me on the ground.
Just imagine that.
They make it sound like a bad thing, but the “problem” could turn out to be some kind of solution. In these modern times, so many products are not really made to last and soon have to be replaced. But there are a lot of things that could benefit greatly from a slow molecular breakdown.
Take paint for instance. Maybe we should grind up these plastic bottles to a powder and add it to paint. After your painted building finally rots away, one could be left with a huge 500-year-old tarpaulin with windows. You could just rebuild your structure and just throw on the old paint like a slipcover for another 200 years!
Roof shingles made from this immortal plastic would give a whole new meaning to “Lifetime Warranty”.
And there are all kinds of wood products that the salvaged plastic bottle could replace.
“Well Sonny, they say there was a factory somewhere that made stuff out of plastic bottles that they used to just throw away.”
“Really, Grandpa?”
“Sure. See that ancient fence row? Legend has it that those fence posts were set by your Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great…”
Sound unlikely?
Well, I remember when water first hit the market in plastic bottles. On a planet that is something like two-thirds water on the surface, it seemed silly at the time to think that people would actually buy something that they could get from the tap for free. But they did.
Personally, I’m hoping for something truly profound, like perpetual lawn chair webbing so I can avoid the yearly struggle to climb out after the seat drops me on the ground.
Just imagine that.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Camping 1968
We twenty-nine Scouts and two Scout leaders went to the woods for four days and three nights in the first week of January around 1968.
Our campsite was a place called Salt Peter Cave; a couple of miles walk cross-country from a back road near Piney Fork, Kentucky. The “cave” was an undercut bluff providing shelter maybe a hundred and fifty feet across the rock face to a depth of fifty to sixty feet from front to back.
This was a dry shelter with woods all around. So dry, in fact, that the ground within was six to fifteen inches of finely powdered dust and ash from the campfires of a hundred years and countless inhabitants. Small animal bones as well as teeth resembling human, might be sifted from any good scoop of dust.
Now, a good Scout could start a campfire in any weather using only one match. That good Scout also knew that extra canteens were for kerosene. The scout leaders frowned on this short cut to a quick fire, so we kept this to ourselves as best we could.
We had scattered out in groups of four or five so we could sleep close to a campfire within the group. The first night we had several campfires under the bluff, which was convenient and warm, but the increased smoke caused one Scout to have an asthma attack. We were then limited to one central fire full time and individual small fires for cooking only.
After that, the nights were near sleepless as we shivered in rolled up balls, without the benefit of a nearby fire. Completely buried in my sleeping bag, my only respite from the cold seemed to be my own breath warming my fingers.
For bedding, we laid our sleeping bags atop leaves we’d gathered earlier, which were piled, into hollows in the dust. No matter how many leaves we gathered, there was always some big pointed rock that wasn’t noticed during the day that would keep you company all night long.
In the very early morning hours many of us would gather near the main fire to warm up, listening to the splattering of the water in the pool and the chase of squirrels in the woods.
Icicles had formed on the overhang high above a shallow, partially frozen pool. Most of us immediately placed eggs and other perishables along the edge of the pool, which served as our outdoor refrigerator. A good idea, we thought. The raccoons thought so, too.
One morning it had snowed and must have warmed up somewhat to cause the icicles to fall into the pool, dispatching anything that the raccoons might have missed.
I was not, at that time, familiar with the role of cooking oil in food preparation, so scrambled eggs ultimately became egg crumbs scraped from the mess kit’s fry pan. They were tasty just the same.
Partially burnt Vienna sausage and cold pork and beans with mustard is an acquired taste. Food like this builds memory cells in the brain, for after forty years, I still vividly remember the taste, but at the time, we felt like we were eating like kings.
One of the Scouts within our group used an improvised foil reflector oven to bake biscuits, which turned out a little doughy but did not go uneaten. Some also baked potatoes or corn on the cob wrapped in foil and laid in the coals of the fire.
We learned to smear dish washing soap on the underneath side of our mess kits to make an easy job of removing the black soot after cooking.
We tended to lean more towards military type provisions rather than the traditional Scout supplies. Many a surplus WWII artifact came out of retirement in those days. Nearly every Scout had some memento of their fathers’ service during the war: a shovel, a duffle bag or a canteen. One Scout even brought a helmet. I had one of my fathers’ Army belts, along with a canteen on an ammo belt, which I got from the Army Surplus store.
My Yucca pack always looked very straight and uniformed. I was complemented on this and felt no need to mention that there was a cardboard box neatly fitted into the pack to hold its shape.
I had borrowed my father’s leather boots, not to be deterred by the fact that they were a little small and smaller still with two pair of socks. They had that military look about them that blended well with my “look”. As always, fashion before function.
But the boots soon got wet and then froze overnight. I placed them by the main fire in the morning only to see the toes curl up as they thawed. The boots became torturously small and contorted with almost no room for feet let alone any socks.
I suffered though the third day before resorting to my only backup, a pair of low top house moccasins. The moccasins had a low tolerance for the wet weather and soon gave up their very soles in protest. I ended up using my bootlaces to tie the fragmenting moccasins to my feet. These lasted long enough to make it to the last day.
By the time we were ready to go home, the dust had thoroughly infiltrated everything we had brought with us. I was obviously filthy from head to toe, but didn’t seem to care since everyone else was equally mortified.
I remember standing in the shower at home watching the streams of mud swirling down the drain. I was certainly happy to get into my warm bed that night.
I lost most of my toenails over the next few weeks, which grew back eventually. I still wonder if it was the cold or if it was the constrictive boots which caused this.
Maybe it was both.
Our campsite was a place called Salt Peter Cave; a couple of miles walk cross-country from a back road near Piney Fork, Kentucky. The “cave” was an undercut bluff providing shelter maybe a hundred and fifty feet across the rock face to a depth of fifty to sixty feet from front to back.
This was a dry shelter with woods all around. So dry, in fact, that the ground within was six to fifteen inches of finely powdered dust and ash from the campfires of a hundred years and countless inhabitants. Small animal bones as well as teeth resembling human, might be sifted from any good scoop of dust.
Now, a good Scout could start a campfire in any weather using only one match. That good Scout also knew that extra canteens were for kerosene. The scout leaders frowned on this short cut to a quick fire, so we kept this to ourselves as best we could.
We had scattered out in groups of four or five so we could sleep close to a campfire within the group. The first night we had several campfires under the bluff, which was convenient and warm, but the increased smoke caused one Scout to have an asthma attack. We were then limited to one central fire full time and individual small fires for cooking only.
After that, the nights were near sleepless as we shivered in rolled up balls, without the benefit of a nearby fire. Completely buried in my sleeping bag, my only respite from the cold seemed to be my own breath warming my fingers.
For bedding, we laid our sleeping bags atop leaves we’d gathered earlier, which were piled, into hollows in the dust. No matter how many leaves we gathered, there was always some big pointed rock that wasn’t noticed during the day that would keep you company all night long.
In the very early morning hours many of us would gather near the main fire to warm up, listening to the splattering of the water in the pool and the chase of squirrels in the woods.
Icicles had formed on the overhang high above a shallow, partially frozen pool. Most of us immediately placed eggs and other perishables along the edge of the pool, which served as our outdoor refrigerator. A good idea, we thought. The raccoons thought so, too.
One morning it had snowed and must have warmed up somewhat to cause the icicles to fall into the pool, dispatching anything that the raccoons might have missed.
I was not, at that time, familiar with the role of cooking oil in food preparation, so scrambled eggs ultimately became egg crumbs scraped from the mess kit’s fry pan. They were tasty just the same.
Partially burnt Vienna sausage and cold pork and beans with mustard is an acquired taste. Food like this builds memory cells in the brain, for after forty years, I still vividly remember the taste, but at the time, we felt like we were eating like kings.
One of the Scouts within our group used an improvised foil reflector oven to bake biscuits, which turned out a little doughy but did not go uneaten. Some also baked potatoes or corn on the cob wrapped in foil and laid in the coals of the fire.
We learned to smear dish washing soap on the underneath side of our mess kits to make an easy job of removing the black soot after cooking.
We tended to lean more towards military type provisions rather than the traditional Scout supplies. Many a surplus WWII artifact came out of retirement in those days. Nearly every Scout had some memento of their fathers’ service during the war: a shovel, a duffle bag or a canteen. One Scout even brought a helmet. I had one of my fathers’ Army belts, along with a canteen on an ammo belt, which I got from the Army Surplus store.
My Yucca pack always looked very straight and uniformed. I was complemented on this and felt no need to mention that there was a cardboard box neatly fitted into the pack to hold its shape.
I had borrowed my father’s leather boots, not to be deterred by the fact that they were a little small and smaller still with two pair of socks. They had that military look about them that blended well with my “look”. As always, fashion before function.
But the boots soon got wet and then froze overnight. I placed them by the main fire in the morning only to see the toes curl up as they thawed. The boots became torturously small and contorted with almost no room for feet let alone any socks.
I suffered though the third day before resorting to my only backup, a pair of low top house moccasins. The moccasins had a low tolerance for the wet weather and soon gave up their very soles in protest. I ended up using my bootlaces to tie the fragmenting moccasins to my feet. These lasted long enough to make it to the last day.
By the time we were ready to go home, the dust had thoroughly infiltrated everything we had brought with us. I was obviously filthy from head to toe, but didn’t seem to care since everyone else was equally mortified.
I remember standing in the shower at home watching the streams of mud swirling down the drain. I was certainly happy to get into my warm bed that night.
I lost most of my toenails over the next few weeks, which grew back eventually. I still wonder if it was the cold or if it was the constrictive boots which caused this.
Maybe it was both.
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