On a cold and snowy winter day I waltzed into a Western store in Sanger, Texas and exited a few minutes later with a pair of Tony Lama full quill ostrich boots. I paid more for them than I had the Oldsmobile I was driving and I second guessed myself plenty on the way home. Twenty two years later, almost to the day, I’m still proud of my purchase.
This morning I retrieved my old boots from the closet and slid them on and instantly I felt satisfaction. They have always fit like a soft glove and are as comfortable as bedroom shoes. I wore those boots over eight years every work day on concrete and asphalt and likely a few years more since. They still look as good as another pair many years younger.
They don’t make boots like they once did. These old boys are as soft as glove leather and as tough as a rhino’s hide. I’d pay double for a new pair the same quality as these old familiar friends.
Why boots? Well, I an’t a cowboy, that’s for sure! The last time I was on a horse I returned from my one hour ride with two blisters on my other end the size of silver dollars. I don’t do well with horses, they step on me, bite me, and generally hurt me.
I suppose I like boots for the same reason a fellow likes a good cup of hot coffee about daylight. It’s a pleasure thing. I’ve had people with bad manners poke fun at me for wearing boots, especially since I left Texas, but I put a good pair of boots right up there with a good pick up truck or a boat motor that starts every time you try it. (I’ve got them too, I’m a lucky man!)
Don’t knock wearing cowboy boots ‘til you’ve tried them. You’re missing one of the finer things in life.
That’s they way I see it,