Ensconced az ah wuz, on the peninsula at Eagle Ridge County Park, I sat in the early-morning light of Saturday, eying 'em up. And decided it was time.
I 'splained how I LIVE in muh boots and ast "Iz there enny chance you could git to 'em rite away?" Dwight, the owner, offered that if I could bring 'em in Monday morning at 7:30 (SEVEN-THIRTY!!!) when he opened, he could probably get them done by the end of the day. I said I'd get back to him.
Thinking it'd be easier on everyone if I could leave 'em for several days, I called the shop in Elko, Nevada, where I was heading. He was backed up for over a week. It'd be ten days before he could start. I called Dwight.
It was now around 10:00 a.m. He encouraged me to bring 'em in, adding that he closed at 2:00. If I could get there soon, he could tear 'em down and they could be drying out. He'd work on 'em Monday.
I arrived at the shop to find it locked and dark. I called. I THOUGHT I'd been calling the place where I was. Leery of Boot Barn -- it's a chain, ain't hit? -- I'd called another shop. Now, standing outside it, I heard, for the first time, Dwight say, "Boot Barn and repair." I 'cided tuh go see. Checking Google for the address, I noticed he was an authorized White's dealer. Hmmm.
Basin Boot Barn and Shoe Repair looks like a cobbler's shop should. Deep-lugged, high-topped boots stacked on the floor; the smell of tanned leather; various projects in process at different types of stitching machines. The White's are gettin' resoled by someone who's "sperienced."
I spent Saturday evening and Sunday shuffling around in my oversized Hushpuppy slipons. A $2.00 thrift store find, they slide on easily at 2:00 a.m. when I gots tuh get up to chase off the bears and mountain lions. But theyz so loose ah cain't hardly walk mor'n tuh the latrine; hit'd been a lazy weekend.
Monday, needing to do laundry and other errands, I went into town a bit early. I called at 1:00 to see how things were coming and left a message. I didn't hear back.
Near on around 4:00, thinking he closed at 5:00, I strolled in expecting to be handed the finished boots. Instead, he was in full vituperation, swearing like a stevedore. As I proffered sympathy, the tale began to unfold.
I wear a size 12, but to match the width of the former sole on these hand-crafteds, Dwight had to use a size 14. This then required cutting off some of the toe to get the length right.
He'd taken the heel from a size 16; the mid-sole was of equally odd size. He never said what he'd done, except it was a good thing we'd decided to take it apart because there were "rocks" in between (the sole and mid-sole). He'd never seen a boot so dirty (the diff tween woods and desert?) and it had taken several scrubbings to get them clean. He'd come in Sunday to hang them upside down so they'd be sure and dry. He said he didn't think they were QUITE there when he came in Monday, but he'd gone ahead anyway.
From previous resolings I'd learned there are quite a few different kinds of vibram soles. But I hadn't thought mine would be that unique. Dwight said in all his 35-years he'd never seen a job like this. I thought about how each morning when I slide these boots on I enjoy their fit; kid gloves.
When I'd come in he was nailing the soles. I couldn't tell the source of annoyance, but it was intense. I suggested we wait another day as it was nearly five o'clock. He said we still had another half hour (this was when I learned he closed at 5:30). I settled in on the white plastic lawn-chair.
He learned his trade in another town then went to Medford. He moved to Klamath Falls over 35 years ago. In all that time he'd never had a job like this! But he was angry at not having the right sized parts. I related how my therapist had counseled me, years ago, "Adequate, Mike."
Dwight's response was the same as mine, "Adequate isn't sufficient."
They haven't been this clean since new.
At 5:45, boots in hand, I bade him come out and admire Phoebe...so he could say he'd seen her. (Like Didi & Gogo and the Boy in Waiting for Godot.)
