“Where are your boots?” demanded this strange woman whom I had never laid eyes on in my life. I seemed to be Charlie Brown on the pitcher’s mound once again.
I stood looking down at my feet thinking “who is this woman and why is she asking such a dumb question?”
OK, gentle readers, here is how it all happened. Once again I found myself at my favorite hangout, the steak house and saloon where I go to be with friends and dance the night away every weekend. I walked to my table (they keep a table reserved for me there) and removed my coat and hung it on the back of my chair. There was a man and woman (married I’m guessing) sitting directly behind me. After this woman blurted out her question, I was some what stunned and replied, looking down at my lace up ropers, “These
are my boots,” I offered in a somewhat defensive but weak voice.
“No, I mean your cowboy boots ... Those are not cowboy boots ... They ... Those are like dancing slippers!” she barked.
I glanced at her husband? He leaned back in his chair with arms folded rolling his eyes as if to say, “Here we go again!”
This woman had thrust her foot forward and said, “THESE are boots, your’s are not boots!”
She was wearing a ladies dress boot with a zipper up the side, pointed toe and dressy heel.
I was somewhat frustrated by now as I just stared at her and finally spoke in a direct way, “Would you like for me to ’splain why I wear this type of boot?”
She glared at me and shot back, “Yeah, ’splain why you wear those instead of cowboy boots!”
I started slowly in a measured cadence, “Ma’am, when I was 42-years-old, a 1,450 pound horse fell on me and broke my right leg and separated my foot from my ankle. So now, I am an old guy with, according to my doc traumatic arthritis in my ankle joint. I have a brace on my ankle now and have to wear a boot like this one that laces up in order to be able to dance.”
Her face softened but she wasn’t done with me as of yet. “Well, how did that happen?”
Knowing full well she wouldn’t have a distant clue as to what I was about to tell her, I relayed how I roped a steer to doctor him and my loop was too big and he was about to run through it ... blah, blah, blah, blah ... and the horse was jerked on me in the mud ... blah, blah, blah, blah ...
“You are a miracle man!” she blurted out.
“No ma’am, I’m just an old guy with a bad leg that wants to dance. Her husband had become some what interested in my story as he had leaned over the table but said nothing.
I just had to finish this way, “Are we good?”
“We’re good but you are a miracle man!”
As a sidebar, you most likely have this paper on the 10th of this month. It would have been Little Miss Martha’s 69th birthday. She, bless yer heart, was the complete total opposite of this loud mouthed woman I had encountered. Yep, I really miss that little gal!
Stay tuned my friends, check yer cinch on occasion, lay behind the log and keep yer powder dry and I’ll c y’all, all y’all. ❖