Archive for the 'boots' Category

My Wendy Davis boots

March 7, 2014

What color is “poppy”?  I didn’t assume I know, so I looked at the pictures — in the print catalog and then online on the company’s website, and the color looked like red to me.  The product was mid-calf height rubber rain boots.

The poppies in my gardens are red, so red seemed to be a reasonable color for “poppy” to be.

I thought of ordering black, but I spend half the winter in black boots (and half in brown), so I am ready for a change.  I have fond memories of wearing red boots, and up here in New England I thought I could get away with wearing red rain boots, even as a middle-aged woman.

I want them for the spring mud and melt-off, especially when I’m out walking.

Well, the boots that came are not red.  They are the color of my neighbor’s poppies, that is, deep pink.

I do wear some pink in my clothing choices, especially because I have such a pink complexion.  My glasses are pale pink.  But bright deep solid coral pink is a little further than I would intentionally go.  As a stripe in a pair of socks, I would wear it in a heartbeat, but pink rubber rain boots?  I would not have chosen that color in that item knowingly.

I was, of course, offered the option of returning the boots.  Pack ’em up, ship ’em out, wait a number of weeks, and I could have black.  Instead I accepted some money off of what I paid and I am wearing them.

I’m thinking they could be my political statement in support of Wendy Davis’ candidacy for Texas governor, she of the pink running shoes.

Actually, what made me decide to keep them was the chance to come to terms with having something pink foisted on me to wear.  That happened to me when I was a youngster being pressured into taking ballet class.  This time around I am better able to find a way to fit the pink into my life, including seeing it as an opportunity to overcome feeling self-conscious about it and troubling myself about reactions I might get.

When I wore the pink boots to run some errands this morning, the clerk at one of my stops had hair that was dyed a bright pinkish red.  That made me feel in the swim.

I do think life often gives us multiple opportunities to learn something, and that eventually we and a situation match up well enough for us to be able to hit the pitch and learn whatever it is we needed to learn — and in a context in which our learning our lesson also helps serve the greater good.

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Feather and ring

October 9, 2011

I didn’t leave myself enough time for a long walk before the time Jonas said he would call, so I didn’t go into the woods, although I passed by it on my way back.  I came home, Jonas called, Jordan said his friend wasn’t coming over, and so I headed back out, this time for the woods.

I went up to the top of the clearing in the middle, along the path the poodle used to choose, and the light slanting in from the west through the trees and down the hill was pretty.  I sat on a rock for a bit, then got up.  I had thought that I didn’t want to ask for more hawk feathers, it would start feeling greedy, but I was drawn to edge of the clearing and there saw the end of a feather protruding from some leaves.  I thought it might be a pigeon feather, but, no, when I pulled it out, it was big and striped and hawkish.

So, I feel as if I have someone to thank for this, and for the ring I found in an antique store on Friday.

I was across the street, buying woolly socks for the long winter nights with the oil-fueled heat turned down, and I thought I might as well go visit Fancy Flea since I had time left on the parking meter.  The store is somewhat of a collapsed version from what I remember of it, and I didn’t ask (I guess it’s been years since I’ve been in to it), but they were showing rings to some tourists from Dallas, Texas, so I thought, “Well, I’m still looking for a ring configuration for my hands that suits, might as well look, too.”    I don’t always have much luck, unless I want to go through the added step of having the ring sized, because I have small fingers.  Having just been told in the shoe store where I bought my socks that the waterproof sheepskin boots I usually spend the winter in don’t come short anymore and that they hadn’t ordered down as far as my size in the tall version, I was not assuming I’d find anything that fit among the rings (not to mention something I could afford), but there it was, the perfect pink gold (they told me, “rose gold”) simple band, and that fits my ring finger on my right hand, and for $55.  This I could do, especially in light of a(n unrelated) discount credit of $39 I’d just gotten the night before — it felt almost as if somebody else (and I’m not going to use the subjunctive) was paying for it, which also sat better with me in the context of receiving what must have been a (somebody else’s) wedding band.

So, I wanted to say something semi-publicly about the ring and the feather and my sense of coming home.  It is clearly a more positive experience than what Robert Graves wrote about in “To Bring the Dead to Life” (I don’t feel as if I’m impersonating a ghost), and while the ring reminds me a little of the ring worn by a friend of mine who was a Roman Catholic nun when I knew her (similar simplicity, same finger), it is different from that, too.  (It is clear to me that the ring has nothing to do with Willy.)  I’m not exactly sure what else to say; isn’t there another Graves poem called “Leaving the Rest Unsaid?”