Old Man’s Boots

The silver maple leaves have turned into deep reds and burnt oranges and are blowing across the overgrown grass in our yard. Many of the trees stand bare. The birds have left and it is eerily quiet; the world is folding inwards. Inside, a wood stove is burning lightly; filling the house with tender warmth.
On some cool and windy Fall afternoon, Pop is walking up the front steps of our house, through the doorway, and slipping off his L.L. Bean clogs in the entryway. As a little boy, I scurry eagerly to give him a hug and take his jacket and U.S. Navy hat, to be hung on the back of a chair. He greets me with a different nickname each week. Years later, he’ll call me ‘Buckwheat’— for the homemade mattress that I’m sleeping on—and that one will stick with me.
Pop is here for Sunday dinner. The dogs, excited to have company, sniff and prod for his attention until they retire to their beds beside the fireplace. My mother is cooking and filling the air with the sweet smell of apple pie. Pop fumbles with the remote, puts on a football game, and inevitably fall asleep. Later, we will all gather around the kitchen table to talk about the week and to eat. And then my father and Pop will return to the living room for a nap and I’ll help my mother with the dishes. And finally, a few games of cards.
In the most comfortable way, each Sunday was nearly the same; greetings, a nap, dinner, another nap, cards, and goodbyes. When Pop left each Sunday evening, like a sorry little dog, I’d wait longingly for him to return. For years, Sundays were the focal point of our week and we’d always adjust our lives to make sure we gathered for dinner. Sunday, it seemed, was sacred.
Until suddenly, it wasn’t.
Time changed drastically since then. Steadily, Pop struggled to climb our front stairs, withering into an old man until he had to give up his license. Then, we would pick him up, bring him over to the house; keep the tradition going. But eventually, we all grew up somehow and those Sunday dinners vanished. Patterns do change, after all.
Now, I live in another state and Pop has passed.
Autumn is, once again, closing in around us. The leaves change, the trees grow ever bare, the birds flash over the horizon and I’m longing for what will never be again.
Today; for the first time, I slipped on Pop’s old L.L. Bean boots; in honor of him and of the coming season. They remind me of easier times, when life and love revolved more clearly around simple pleasures. They’re a bit big on me. I imagine how they must’ve fit Pop; maybe a little tighter as he got older and his ankles became permanently swollen.
The soles are well worn and the leather laces are still tied, just the way he liked them.
