My Father's Boots, Connected Me to My Roots

     How often when growing up do we believe we know more than our parents, or for some reason they are an embarrassment to us? For me, it took a trip to Nashville, Tn., at the age of 50, 25 years after my dad passed away, for me to come full circle with the feelings I had about his cowboy boots and the person he was.
     In late September, last year, I went to a workshop with spoken word artist Minton Sparks. She told us that the ground we were born over, comes up through us and out of us as writers. I guess that's the first time I really appreciated where I came from. Before that time, I felt it was not consequential to who I became as an adult.
     Although my family was very dysfunctional, we loved each other in our own way. One of my earliest memories is of wanting to be a cowgirl. Mom and Dad bought me a cowgirl outfit and boots to go alone with it. There was also a cowgirl hat that I kept attached to my bouncing head with a drawstring. At the age of three, I thought I was in style and very proud to have my picture made in this western getup.
     But soon, when I was four, mom began to go to church and I went along. Dad didn't attend very often. So, I began to see that other men wore dress shoes, not cowboy boots. This became an embarrassment to me that my Dad never wore dress shoes.
     It was much later in my life that I realized, he came from Colorado and the West--it was who he was. Many years later I fell in love with the West, the mountains, the canyons, the rocks and the deserts, many years later I would wear cowboy boots. Many years later I would understand where he came from, his roots and the reasons he was who he was.
     Recently I was privileged to read a poem I'd written at the Minton Sparks workshop at our local Spofest--a public presentation and performance of poets, writers and musicians. Below is my poem "Daddy's Boots," and some thoughts on my mom and dad:
      

     Daddy's Boots

Now, daddy loved his boots,

leather cowboy boots,

he shined them with Kiwi polish and a soft cloth,

and a special horsehair brush 

with a wooden handle,

buffing them to a proper shine,

bringing to the room the sent of polish, 

coffee and Prince Albert tobacco.

(I still have his brush,

used by my son to shine his boots.)

But, for all of his love for his boots, I was ashamed of them,

not of their shine, nor the smell of their polished leather,

nor the way the heels

smacked the concrete sidewalk when he came home at night,

but that they were... well, boots...

cowboy boots.

No one in my "World" wore cowboy boots.

I went to church with mama, 

and the men all wore proper leather loafers 

and dress-up laced shoes.

 But daddy came from Colorado,

he'd owned a Palomino,

and a cowboy hat--he loved the West,

he loved the wind and the mountains,

he loved Louis L'amour and John Wayne,

He loved sad country music the kind 

with a nasal twang.

(But all those memories of his past,

were lost to me in the prideful waters of my swirling youth,

because I knew how he was supposed to look,

I knew how he was supposed to act.) 

The day came when he would walk me down the aisle,

I was embarrassed,

because he insisted on wearing cowboy boots--

not proper leather loafers like a church going man would wear!

I was married in the fall and daddy wore his boots--

to my chagrin.

With his tux, 

with his bow-tie

with his cowboy boots he gave me away--much to his chagrin,

and his to sadness at lost opportunities

 and my loss of youth and my leap into adulthood.

And now, so many years later, many years after he's passed on,

I'm traveling, wearing cowboy boots with a skirt and a scarf,

and bangles, driving to Nashville to learn about where I came from,

and the people who made me who I am...

    

Daddy

Western snap shut shirts

Cowboy boots and Khaki pants,

Rolled up jeans,

Black hair, combed backed with a proper duck-bill,

Roll-your-own cigarettes and black coffee,

Prince Albert in a can,

Cans of beer clustered close by,

Country music,

 Home made omelets and fried potatoes,

a welder by trade,

flash burned eyes soothed 

by mama and potato poultices,

Army cook and survivor of WWII,

with mental scars produced by 

walking through Dachau,

Loved to take photographs.

Mama  

Simple cotton dresses, with simple buttons,

 made by a friend,

canvass tennis shoes,

a large purse full of everything anyone could need,

including her full-sized Bible,

Hair grayed much too soon,

pulled back in a bun,

Breakfast rolls and donuts,

Three Musketeers Bars,

Polk greens and watercress,

fried chicken and mashed potatoes,

Instant coffee, diet soda,

a cook in restaurants and maker of giant cream pies,

lover of dogs and children,

believer in God and the "Church,"

never learned to drive,

rider of cabs and the church bus,

A Writer of poems and songs.

     For a video presentation of "Daddy's Boots," please use this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gC-LTmHfC2I&list=UUuBt6CUBHLTQD1amOpvAm1g&index=8&feature=plcp