Red Wings
I need new boots for an upcoming trip to the high peaks. The old ones are falling apart. So I make a long drive to an outdoor gear store located in a fancy shopping plaza. Wikipedia says this is the third oldest shopping plaza in the region. It opened in 1959, the year after I was born. One of the original tenants was Howard Johnson’s. That eatery is long gone. Today there’s a Starbucks. I share these fun facts of consumer history because they are more interesting than any of the shoddy boots I try on at the outdoor gear store. Oh well, the trip is not a total waste. I pick up a couple other items for my trip: a propane canister for my stove and some freeze-dried mac-and-cheese.
At the checkout, a friendly young clerk looks at my items and says: “Where you headed?” I tell her nowhere. This fazes her a bit. Still smiling she asks: “What’s your phone number?” I tell her I have no phone. The smile on her face disappears. Next she asks, with a tinge of testiness: “How about a rewards card number? What’s your rewards card number?” I tell her don’t have one of those either. Now she’s really at a loss. She must think I’m some sort of escapee, maybe from a prison or a madhouse. She puts on a spare smile (she must keep it behind the counter) to get through the rest of this transaction. To help her feel better, I pay with a credit card.
I drive toward home without any new hiking boots, resigned to the prospect duct-taping the old ones and making do. I’ve done that before.
Next thing you know, along a back road that runs through a busy how town, I spot a western wear store with a big sign out front that says, “Red Wing Shoes.” Oh lordy, all is not lost!
When I was young and living in the American West, Red Wings were my mountaineering boot of choice. My buddies, far superior mountaineers than I, made fun of my footwear, but those boots were my joy. They made me look, if not climb, like Norman Clyde, the legendary Sierra mountaineer who notched more than 130 first ascents. I loved those old Red Wings! I don’t know why I ever stopped wearing them.
I pull into the parking lot of the western wear store. The place looks like an unpainted old barn. Arranged in the storefront window are several plastic geese wearing hats made of plastic fruit. I have no idea what any of this means, but it cheers me. Inside, the western wear store smells of fresh leather. I’m greeted by a woman who looks genuinely happy to see me, a complete stranger.
“Whatcha want, hon?” She calls me hon. I tell her I want Red Wings.
“Come with me, hon. They’re right over here. What’s your size?” I tell her. She goes into the back and comes out with a box. “Here ya go, hon. There’s some seats over there. Try ‘em on. Take your time.”
I do take my time. I try the boots on. I walk around in them. They’re perfect. I say, “I’ll take them!”
The woman says: “That’s great, hon.” She doesn’t ask me where I’m going with my new Red Wings. She doesn’t ask for my phone number. And there’s no rewards program in this offbeat bootery, except that she calls everybody “hon.”
On my way out the door, she says: “Those are some mighty fine work boots, hon. Now go do them proud.”
©John P. O’Grady
Originally appeared in The Mountain Eagle on February 19, 2021
