It snowed. Hallelujah! — a couple inches of new white stuff to cover secrets that were suddenly exposed during last week’s thaw. Property that seemed so pristine in its blanket of white was suddenly cluttered with bright, plastic sleds, a forlorn hat and mittens from the snowman, stray lead rope that someone trailed from the barn and then dropped by the pine tree. The dog pilfered a milk jug from the garbage can. Empty feed bags, pop cans and a spoon from my kitchen. Dump trucks in the sandbox.
And why are there hundreds of muddy boots scattered on my back porch? Ahh. I remember now. I have children. And a husband.
They have endless outdoor ambitions and boots for every endeavor. Snow boots; winter barn boots; rubber barn boots; rain boots; hiking boots; cowboy boots; tennis shoes and flip-flops … boots for woodcutting; for scraping the feedlot and bedding the steers; every day and heavy snow boots; hunting boots; cowboy boots; and of course, rubber boots that will carry Farm Boy safely to the ark when the next flood comes.
I have a plan … a storage bench with four sections and hinged lids. In it they will stuff their multi-million pairs of boots and shoes and cease abusing my valuable back door real estate. I won’t even mention their dirty, muddy and often stinky, barn clothes.
And I’m going to get one of these — it excuses everything quite effectively:
