Alas poor Yorick, I knew him well

The time has come to say goodbye to a dear friend. More than a friend really, a faithful and long-suffering companion of mine has passed into the great beyond. No longer able to deal with the day-to-day struggles of this life, they have finally given up the good fight. I tried to deny their passing for far too long, to fool myself into thinking they would be with me forever, yet all things must eventually die.

I am, of course, speaking about my faithful pair of Doc Martin’s boots. These well-worn black leather solders have served me well for over 7 years, but now I must admit that they have outlived their useful existence can must be retired. Perhaps it was the prodding of all those around me that finally did it, or perhaps it was the fact that I could see my socks through the holes in the tops of toes of the boots? Either way, they are far beyond repair and after much denial on my part, had to be replaced.

Why am I saddened by the passing of an old pair of boots?

See, these were not just any mere footwear. No, these boots had history. Back when I was doing all this in my back yard, they valiantly shielded me from the elements with thier thick leather hide to kept my feet warm. Protecting my toes from the countless boiling kettles, intent upon harming me with their scalding contents, they took the boiling bullet instead. Tirelessly traveled with me coast to coast, as I spent too many hours on my feet selling at dozens of nameless conventions across the country. These were the boots where Alex first learned how to black, thier dull grey hide trasnformed back to gleaming black, these boots have stood menacingly over so many bound girls that I won’t even venture a guess.

These are not just boots; no these are pieces of history. Like brave warriors returning from a long and brutal war, they deserve better than to just be tossed into the Abbey dumpster. But what? Bronzing them and making them a monument in the Abbey seems too pretentious. I don't own a fireplace so polishing them one last time and placning them on the mantle is out of the question. Then there was the suggestion that we fill them full of rope and auction them off for charity. Let someone else care for this piece of history.

If my grandmother were still alive, I would ask her to put them in her garden and use them as planters. She came from that generation who re-used those sorts of things and made them look good. I’m not kidding, this woman made a planter out of an old toilet and her yard was the envy of the neighborhood.

But I digress.

So I shall bid a farewell to my loyal companions and salute them one last time. Good night my well worn, princes of foot protection. My arches thank you. May you close your 20 eyes one last time and rest well in the knowledge that your steel reinforced toes answered the challenge and answered it well.


Your replacements know they have a large legacy to live up to.