clod•hop•per (ˈklädˌhäpər) n.
- a clumsy boor; rustic; bumpkin.
- clodhoppers, strong, heavy shoes.
Let me first dispel the notion that I’m a clumsy boor or a bumpkin, although I might appear a bit rustic to some. I find down to earth to be a bit more descriptive. Too much society has never been my thing and the older I get the farther away from it I want to be. There are those that relish a crowd but I head for the woods when I see one coming. I enjoy good company in measured doses, and without the pretension. But I digress; this is about clodhoppers, not society. Note that I use boots and clodhoppers interchangeably. A clodhopper has always been a boot to me, not a person.
My old boots had sat in the back corner of the closet, somewhat out of sight and a little out of mind, at least until the storm hit. Earlier this summer, we had a rather violent thunderstorm pass through with straight-line winds better than 50 miles an hour. I was in the backyard tending my garden when the storm arrived with a vengeance. Vengeance is mine saith the storm, and you’d better believe it. Discretion being the better part of valor, I beat a hasty retreat indoors.
At the peak of the storm, I heard the tell-tale “WHUMMPPP” of a large object hitting the ground; a sound that I felt, as well as heard. When the storm subsided, I found our sugar maple down, its branches stretching across Royal Street. Being a somewhat anal person (just ask my wife), I wanted the tree removed as quickly as possible and knowing that the city would already be overwhelmed with the storm’s damage, I decided to tackle it on my own.
Putting on a pair of Levis, I dug my clodhoppers out of the closet and put them on for the first time in over 34 years. With a pair of leather work gloves on my hands, I fired up my Stihl Farm Boss. Sawing into the wood reminded me of the days when I cut firewood for my dad’s wood stove. I reveled in the feel of the boots on my feet, the chainsaw in my hands, the smell of the wood chips, and the sweat and satisfaction of hard work.
I think I got my first pair of clodhoppers when I was 7 or 8; Redwings, then as always. The boots of my youth explored woods, farms, went on backpacking trips, and Boy Scout campouts. They went with me on epic family camping trips to Maine, Wyoming, Virginia, and points beyond. As I grew older, they labored with me on land survey crews and at construction sites in places like East Chicago, New Washington, Pleasant Valley, and Whiting. These were the times and places that I learned about having fun but working hard. I might add that I got a hell of a lot of dirt on my clodhoppers through the years.
My boots became a part of my identity. I wore them five days a week, sunup to sunset. I religiously rubbed beeswax into the leather to keep it soft, waterproof, and comfortable on my feet. Then as now, they fit me like a glove. Eventually, I moved on to a new chapter in my life and traded them for dress shoes. But I couldn’t bring myself to let them go, so they have followed me through the years to my closet here on Roselawn Avenue. Looking back, I enjoyed wearing my clodhoppers a lot more than a pair of dress shoes. My dress shoes always seemed a bit stiff and unforgiving.
These days, a walk in the woods is much more fulfilling than sitting behind a desk. Don’t miss that morning drive to the office, either. When I look at my old clodhoppers, I see the young man who wore them so many years ago but I realize that I am not all that much different. A few more aches and pains for sure, but what lies underneath hasn’t really gone away. Flesh, bone, and spirit all remain. The weathered leather of my boots and the lines on my face are simply a reflection of the past.
