I have new boots. They’re the warmest ever. They’re waterproof. They have tread that grips the snow. And they are noisy. As I step down on one, it sounds like a tire grabbing the snow when a car gets underway. As I push off again, the boot swishes like corduroy bellbottoms. So, as Rascal and I walk along, the boots go crunchswishcrunchswishcrunchswish. That poor dog won’t be able to sneak up a squirrel again until spring.
Why didn’t I notice the racket at the store, I wonder. Could it be because the store hadn’t covered the floor with a layer of snow? Would I have chosen these boots if I’d known how noisy they are? Most likely. These were the boots, of all the ones I tried, that made me feel like I was suddenly cruising along, rolling from one step to the next, a definite plus in Michigan in January.
In the woods this morning, someone walked by while I was looking elsewhere. In point of fact, I was looking for her, but hood and scarf restricted my field of view. You’d think I could isolate the direction the sound was coming from, but she had noisy boots, too, and her crunching seemed omnidirectional through the layers of cloth over my ears.
Do you suppose the omnidirectional thing works with squirrels, too? Rascal chased three of them up a tree so small I could have wrapped my hand around the trunk recently, but that was before the new boots. The critters arranged themselves evenly around the branches; the tree looked dainty enough that they might have brought it down had they huddled together.
It surprised me that a cardinal was audible over the crunchswishcrunchswish this morning. Also a bluejay whirring and a robin tutting. Not all of our robins bother migrating any more, quite a few taking their chances on surviving winter here. Lately, it’s felt like we’re all taking our chances on surviving winter here: the temperature’s been hovering either side of zero. I’m grateful for the warm boots and hand warmers and the rest of the paraphernalia that keeps me comfortable in the cold.
Today’s winter gear is so much better than what we had when we were kids, although I remember one pair of boots with great fondness. They were the usual boots little girls wore then, white vinyl or rubber or some such, ankle high, and trimmed with white faux fur. They were waterproof, but had little else to recommend them—while their tread lasted. The tread was minimal, but it stood in the way of long, delicious slides over snow and frozen puddles. One year, I’d finally worn off the tread, making for lovely sliding. But along with the tread, I’d actually worn off part of the soles as well, so I’d taken to putting my feet in plastic bags before donning the boots.
I don’t recall now whether it was Mom or the teacher who discovered the bags-in-the-boots routine, but I do remember that Mom wanted to get me new boots immediately. I assured her that this was not necessary, as the bags kept my feet dry. And that new boots would be undesirable because of the whole tread issue. Mom let me finish the winter in the boots I had, but I remember her explaining my reasoning and preferences to the teacher. I was quite pleased with this outcome, although it seemed that Mom was less so.
Mostly parents relied on the high activity level of children then to keep them warm once they were swaddled in winter outerwear. We kids didn’t think much about it. I remember heading off for my friend Kathy’s winter birthday party, present in hand. I set one foot on our icy porch, flew across the rest of the porch and the sidewalk beyond, and landed on our snowy lawn. Dad witnessed the flight and was aghast that some injury had befallen me. It hadn’t. Youth and winter clothes had saved me. I dusted off the birthday present and continued to Kathy’s house.
Marilyn counted on winter clothes to save her. She liked to skate as fast as she could for as long as she could. Rather than not skate the last few feet of shoveled ice before the snow pile, she liked to crash into the snow pile. “Wasn’t that hard on your body?” I asked. “Nope,” she said, “Mom bundled me up so much it acted like bubble wrap. It was great.”
Winter gear can serve functions its makers did not intend. Thank goodness for every crunchy, cushiony, treadless bit of it. 28 January