Old Boots

Old Boots

         Old Boots was his nickname. He earned that handle when he was a kid by wearing a pair of broken-down cowboy boots with the flip-flop of a loose sole on each one. Why, he wouldn’t take nary a thing for them crappy boots. A better name for him would have been Sore Knees, because when he began to run, the floopy soles would cause him to trip and fall on his knees. Every time he’d grin, though, a tear or two would run amiss down his cheek. But Old Boots could outrun the wind when he tied on a couple of deer hide strips to hold the soles tight. Sure enough, he’d be in high spirits for the rest of the day. There was not one youngun in Cedar Creek that could touch Old Boots in his half-mended boots.

         On a cloudy day in spring the following year, Old Boots took off at a sprint toward Rocky Point by himself. I watched him out of sight around Corkscrew Bend, kicking up a bit of yellowed dust. He shouted at me as he disappeared, “See ya on the way back!”

         The next day, Click Creech went for a stroll to Rocky Point where Patchard’s Trail wound around atop of Kilter’s Cliff. Looking over the edge, he spotted a body about a hundred feet below. He yelled at it but nothing stirred—not a sound. Click raced back along the trail where mountain met cliff. He eased down the slope and drew near the body. He was shocked when he recognized the pale features of Old Boots.

         Now all these years later, old and grey at sixty-five, I still gaze with dimmed eyes down the road at Corkscrew Bend, seeing the vague outline of Old Boots vanishing around the hook. I figure Old Boots must live in another world, since he never stops by to gab or grumble about anything. Sure, if’n
I’m around, I do see him every April twenty second, a couple of hours after sunrise. The first time I saw him, it seemed he had on a brand new pair of cowboy boots—not a scuff on them.   






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