My Old Friends

My old friend, I recall
The times we had, hanging on my wall
I wouldn't trade them for gold
'Cause they laugh and they cry me
Somehow sanctify me
They're woven in the stories I have told

                                My Old Friend; Tim McGraw

This 2004 Tim McGraw release, from the album Live Like You Were Dying, has been stuck in my head all afternoon, a so-called "ear worm" placed there by Mrs. ProfessorRoush after she had the utter audacity this morning to suggest that I trash my gardening shoes "because they stink up the closet."   

Setting aside the fact that the afore-mentioned closet is by the door to the garage, and that this is only one of two sets of my shoes in the closet, how could she possibly determine that they smell sufficiently bad as to be singled out to smell worse than the 45 pairs of her sandals, running shoes, exercise shoes, winter boots, and various others that share the closet?   Okay, okay, if you pick them up and smell  closely, there's a faint smell of mold or rot, but you practically have to be nose deep in them to detect it.  C'mon man, if you haven't been washed since the summer of '20, you might smell a little gamey too.

Mrs. ProfessorRoush isn't counting the emotional tie we (the shoes and I) have from the shared miles, the complete support of each other through rain and prairie fire, and the tons of earth and stone shoveled, nor does she value the ways a good shoe eventually mirror and mold the feet they protect.   These shoes started out identical to the 4 other pairs waiting in the wings (they're my go-to Amazon order for shoes), but the latter can never replace the memories.   Every torn stitch is a story told, and every scuff a battle fought and won.  They simply can't be replaced, not by newer, shinier shoes and not by the 2nd pair of my shoes in the closet, these made-for-the-garden waterproof clogs purchased 10 years ago on a whim and which hurt my heels if I wear them more than 5 minutes.

There are some topics, and some totems, that the wife of a gardener should just know to leave alone.  Mrs. ProfessorRoush should recognize that she has no more say over the condition of my garden shoes than over my choice of hoe or whether or not I'm going to spray weeds this weekend.   Silence and tolerance are called for here, not aspersion or defamation of a defenseless pair of beloved shoes.  With patience, eventually, they'll disintegrate, molecule by molecule, just like her gardening husband.  In the meantime, both shoes and ProfessorRoush can be washed, and although neither will look new, they won't look or smell any worse than this old set of Mrs. PR's sandals, will they now?  Birkenstocks, Smirkenstocks.

What will she go on to next, if I were to give in and replace these old friends?  My favorite gardening jeans with the hole in one knee?  My gardening cap? Tread lightly wife, for some bonds are simply stronger than marital ties.  The old sneakers fit me so well I don't even have to untie and retie them, I just slip into them now.  And this hat, well, it's just the perfect tightness to not fly away in the Kansas wind.  In the end, nothing should be feared more than a gardener with a good farm hat, comfortable shoes, and a shovel. 

McGraw's song lyrics, by the way, always leave me a little sad and angry anyway, so the continual replay of them in my head isn't helping the wounds heal today.  This song has always reminded me of a childhood friend, one who ran over the woods and farm with me from first grade through high school, and who died in his 40's due to complications from the Crohn's Disease he fought his whole life, shortly after this song was released.  I'm sorry, my friend, that I didn't see you as often as we aged, nor did I try enough to help carry your pain.  I pray now your pains have been washed away like the dirt from these shoes.  "From dirt, to dirt," is not as comforting to a old gardener, as it might seem, particularly when his shoes have been questioned.