There's nothing that can stop you from being populer--lar,
LAAAAA-LAAA-LLLAAAAA-LAAAAA

I have several blogs in me and haven't had time to get them out so I am determined to write all of them today since it is my day off. I don't know that I will get them all out in one publishing, but I am going to get at least one of them out.

Cowboy Boots

I see little girls in pink and red cowboy boots with their church dresses on Sundays at the Sautee Trail Cafe where we have breakfast with the boys all the time. It is apparent that their mother's know to pick their battles and red or pink cowboy boots are not a real battle to fight. The little girls are so happy to be in the boots they don't even notice the frills of the dress or the curls in thier hair. They just like the boots. They are little cowgirls just like their Daddy's are cowboys. Mom is just glad they got to church on time and are grateful not to make Sunday brunch but rather have it at the cafe.

I don't remember if I had a pair of cowboy boots or not. I can remember wanting some but not so badly that it made a difference. I guess that is a difference of growing up in the city and the country. I wanted to be like my parents and I can't say that I have ever seen either of my parents in a pair of cowboy boots. It seems like being a cowboy would be a good costume for halloween though. It was that type of thing. Cowboys weren't real. They were something that happened in "the Old West." They sure didn't happen on Lakeshore Drive in Avondale Estates or in Stone Mountain at Howell Mill Rd or on Ponce De Leon and College Avenue. That just wasn't something I knew much about. I have never had a reason to want boots.

When I went to college we used to go to the country bar called Mama's which I found ironic in its placement because it was located smack in the middle of the hood. I am not sure if it is still open, my guess is yes. It was an amazing place. Big as a warehouse. On Thursday nights they gave free line dance lessons and Vicki and I would go to learn the line dances. I can remember going back on Fridays a couple of times to dance and drink. It was great fun. I don't know how much I drank because dancing was available. It was hard though when there were so many people because then you'd get asked to dance by men on the slow dances and that for some reason was so uncomfortable. I was not good at that. But I do remember boots. I mean LOTS of boots. The folks there had pride in their boots, their jeans, their skirts, their outfits, their button down shirts, their look. It was all about being country and having pride in the fact that you were country. It was really about the boots because they made it easier to dance. I wanted boots so badly. I came close enough though by having these short healed pretend boots that worked enough to dance. I wanted a pair so badly and couldn't afford them to save my life. I was in college. I was drinking. I wanted and was denied!

At my last job, I finally found a good enough reason for this city gal to buy a pair of boots. One was because I had the money and two was because of image. What more reason does a city girl need than image? I had been in these mountains now for six years and boots were common to a lot of folk up here and while they all required boots for most of their lives, but not me. I was still a city slicker and living on the square in my city apartment. But image for a country concert--I had to look the part. So I bought a pair of really nice denim jeans, a pair of new boots by Dan Post and a Stetson. Now, I would have never chosen the pair that I picked. I went through pair after pair with this gal in the store. I don't know the first thing about boots and she was just trying to help me make up my mind. She knew it didn't make any difference which pair because it would be for looks. I put on the pair that I bought and this man walked around the corner and looked at the boots on my feet and smiled. In a slow, comfortable pace (which at the time I was not in, I had an overwhelming sense of urgency), he stated in that family oriented, southern draw: That's a nice boot--with that, I bought them. The guinuine way he made the statement, I knew I had stumbled onto something good.

The concert was great and I loved the look I had created. Somethings I didn't know about boots that I found out quickly was that they have to be broken in. I broke them in all right. I had more blisters on my feet the next morning, I almost couldn't walk. Since that time, I mostly couldn't find a reason not to wear them. I loved the feel of them. I loved the way they went with every outfit. They made this city slicker into a cowgirl. Although, I didn't really have the experience to be a cowgirl, but I felt like one. I love them. I really wanted to wear them under my wedding dress, but I am sure that my Mom would have stroked, instead I wore them to the dress rehearsal. Hey they matched my outfit!

I have had people come up to me and ask to see the boots that I have on because they recognize the quality of the boot. They ask if it is a Dan Post boot. Who would know? Not me. They will give me this look...it is like how would someone like you have such good taste in country? Country, like I know anything about country? NO. I know people who tell me the truth and that man told me the truth: it was a nice boot.

When I moved to the farm, Gilleland, I thought I was moving to a house. Turns out I was not moving to a house, I was moving to the country. Things at a farm are different than a house. For starters, there is not a driveway or a place to park, cows will spy on you all the time and mowing the front yard is an all week affair. I found more use for my boots than I have ever imagined. For example, it is really hard to get to my car in heels, but in my boots, oh, what a good thing. My love for my boots grew the most when it rained for two days straight here not long ago. I wore my boots and a pair of black pants one day for work and the next day was my day off so I wore the denim boot cut jeans I bought for the concert. There were lots of errands to run and I was out in it, I tell ya. When I finally tracked through the rainy, muddy spot that I park my car and into the mud room, I stripped out of my soaking jeans. I found that the whole bottom six inches of the jeans were just wet, not dry, just wet. Once I was into my snuggly pair of flannel pj pants, I realized, my feet were dry and warm. Not a single bit of my feet were cold or wet. The boots had protected my feet. They kept the jeans from soaking me to the bone. I was warm without having to do anything. I threw the jeans in the dryer and smiled. I was warm. Gotta love boots when they are working. Out I went again to do more things, but I wasn't worried because I had on my boots and knew I would stay dry and warm.

I have found other good uses for them like when I go out into the pasture or out into our yard for that matter. They are protective and comfortable. I had no idea I would enjoy my cowboy boots as much as I have. God knew what he was doing when He moved that man to come around the corner lean on the boot rack and smile. I have never seen that man again, but I know that if I ever buy another pair of boots, it will be on his recommendation. My boots are broken in and are teaching me what it means to be country. I love my boots and I am beginning to love being country.