I am at home, after working yesterday. I've had my coffee and oatmeal, and my boots need a shine. I've had these boots a couple of years and they've only been polished a couple of times. I collect some glossy polish, a rag, a horsehair brush from the shoeshine kit LMB's uncle made, and pack a dip. I take my project outside, sparing the kitchen floor from the inevitable and indelible polish. Summer is waning and the air makes me think of apple pie. I settle into a cedar lawn chair and arrange my tools on a small cedar side table. A crow is perched above me, in the birch, nagging about something, RAAW, RAAW, RAAW.
Ah, this polish is crap, I complain to myself, not very shiny, as I rub the waxy paste into the faintly greening leather. The boot in my hand is well worn and fits my foot like a glove. The various bumps and joint of my feet have coaxed the boot to a perfect fit, and I massage polish into the bulge formed by the outside metatarsal of my EEE dog.
Overhead, the crow is still bitching. I doubt that there is a nest nearby, perhaps he's allergic to shoe polish. I hear the bird move in the branches above and a tiny bit of bird shit lands on the boot in my hands. Sonova... Right at the seam where the upper meets the vamp. It's just a drop, and I rub it into the seam, thinking it might swell the stitching and tighten the boot just a tiny bit, extending its service life. Some cultures believe that a bird pooping on your head is a good omen. I decide to interpret this unlikely blessing from above as just another in a long series of blessings. Stupid crow.
I'm attending a funeral today. One of my department's elder statesmen, BD, lost his grandson this week in a motorcycle accident. BD has been visited by far more than his fair share of grief lately, and I dearly love the man. I have my Class A uniform layed out on the bed, but my boots need some attention. Our policies state that either duty boots or the specified pansy patent shoes are appropriate for occasions requiring the dress uniform. Let the office jockeys and the chiefs wear their shiny black shoes, I am wearing the boots I work in.
The toes are a bit torn and scuffed up. I've kneeled on a glass-strewn freeway, helping to package a drunk driver's victim for transport to Harborview. I've minced around the dogshit on the carpet of too many disgusting apartments. Performed CPR in mobile homes and on the sidewalk. These boots have been peed, vomited, and now shat upon. They've also been scoured in hydrogen peroxide and bleach. BD won't mind.
I'm thinking I'll need to go back inside and rustle up a different tin of polish as I pick up the brush. The dried wax transforms into a glossy shine under the horsehair bristles, and I grin with satisfaction. These boots have scars, but they have a lot of life yet in them. They look good - not the frantic impeccability of our boots during fire academy, but respectfully shiny. The cuts and scratches affirm that these are duty boots, and sometimes duty is hard.
A chief at East Pierce Fire and Rescue was killed last week, fighting wildfires in California. 49 years old, he died fighting the Panther Creek wildfire, overcome by flames on a steep slope. Found under his aluminized fire shelter on top of a ridge, he had four daughters and two grandchildren. His memorial is next week, and my department is sending an engine for the procession. I'll be riding with two of my brothers, but departments from all over the northwest will also attend.
It's a week of grief. Shine 'em up, boys.
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