...the boots that got me across America. Simple as that. I was gone for a month, and had one item of...is 'footwear' a word? Sturdy, leather, fat soles, and laces unprepared to take prisoners. Boots you couldn't mess with. Boots that garner respect with zero effort. Boots you could rely upon.
They're as fucked as Kacey now, but not dead. Not consigned to landfill, nor a homeless collection point, nor some undefined fate seemingly appropriate for legendary pairs of boots past their earnest time of wearing. No. Now? I wear them in the garden. Performing Herculean tasks of impossible maintenance and well-intentioned control.
They are resplendent.
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