The Boots My Mother Gave Me

by Brooklyn James

  I don’t consider myself a bad person, or a particularly good person, a decent but flawed person at best. So what on earth could possibly explain my good fortune? Any other time, I would have believed it short-lived. The bottom most definitely would fall out. But with Jeremiah, my mind was impervious to that thought. If anything, I knew I rested perfectly safe with him.

  I had everything I could possibly ever need right there in that claw foot tub, my mind lazily revisiting all the people, places, and things that brought me to dwell in this enchanted moment in time. Some of the experiences were bittersweet, still considerable in their effect.

  My father, I never understood why he carried on so. If something’s broken, fix it. But I would not be me, as I am, in my existence, without him. Oftentimes, I didn’t know whether he loved me or hated me, whether he wanted me to succeed or would have been just as happy to see me crash and burn, but I wouldn’t change it, not now.

  At least I felt like he loved me sometimes, like he cared, felt proud of me. Maybe it’s better than not having that at all. Regardless of whether he meant to, he taught me how to be capable, to be strong, and to depend on myself. Growing up on the farm, he made us work, we had responsibilities, things that needed to be done, had to be done, on a daily basis. He didn’t always go about it appropriately, he certainly could have made it more enjoyable, definitely more enjoyable, but those were good qualities to instill.

  His physical characteristics remain. I look at myself in the mirror, and I see him every day in pieces of me, my eyebrows, my bottom lip, my chin, the squareness of my shoulders, my long limbs, and most definitely my feet. My father, a good-looking man and strong, physically accomplished, was a regular Paul Newman. I appreciate the physicality and the athleticism, which have served me so well in life.

  My voice, my musical ability, I inherited it from him. He did, in fact, have some influence over my aspirations by playing music when I was a child and asking me to sing with him, propelling me into my own love affair with music. Sometimes it hurt; sometimes I used it as a bartering tool with myself, a form of punishment, boycotting it, attempting to hate the music as he hated me, I thought. But I always came back to it.

  All of these things I picked up from him along the way. He may not have been the best father, the ideal father, the one I would have chosen if given the option, but he was the only one I would ever have. So as I see it, I must embrace that experience, learn from it and grow, taking from it, from him, what I can, the good, and hold onto that. I move the bad to the recesses of my brain in hopes it may become extinct, releasing it from myself, moving past it, beyond it, so as not to allow it to seep into my life, or the lives of my children.

  They will have a different life, different from mine, hopefully better by tenfold. I remember Mom telling Kat and me on several occasions, how our lives would be different from hers, better. I understood where that came from, however I found myself offended at times when she used to say it, as if she let herself off easy, choosing the life she did, then asking us, requiring us to make ours better.

  And there goes the universe again. I finally realized it doesn’t matter how happy or successful you become in your own life, you always want more for your children, everybody does. It wasn’t something my mother made up to excuse herself from the life she led, probably very different from the life she imagined herself in. Akin to because I said so, it had been around for years, every parent privy to the saying, with the hope, the dream, that their children would have more, be more, and do more than they.

  As much as I was a product of my father, I was equally a product of my mother. Mom never knew her own strength. I always thought she must be utterly unyielding internally, simply a brute within, to live with my father for thirty-two years of her life. In my opinion, it would have been much easier to run, get the hell out. I don’t know why she stayed, she can’t tell me exactly why she stayed, to this day.

  Regardless, it was not her fault my father was the way he was. My mother treated us with kindness, decency. She cared for and nurtured us. Amidst it all, at the end of it all, she was a good mom. She never misused us, never misused my father, always good to him, no matter how many rotten things he did to her. And although she enabled him, she was still a victim. It was not her fault my father abused her, abused us. That lies with him, gone, perished with his life here on earth.

  I used to watch her in awe as a child, so tall, beautiful, strong, and competent. I observed in admiration everything she did, from putting on her makeup in the bathroom mirror, to watching the definition in her arms when she pitched hay in the fields, to helping her as she prepared herself for a night out with Dad, dressing to the nines with what she had, always making her modest clothing appear as though it came straight off a runway. She would let me rummage through her jewelry box, her high heels, letting me play dress-up, be just like Mom. All little girls want to be their mothers at some point, don’t they?

  I would put on her shoes and walk around in them, impatiently waiting until I got old enough to do the things she did, the things adults did. That’s how we learn, right? Watching our parents, mimicking them, and waiting for our turn. Even though some of their actions made no sense to me, some seeming downright ludicrous, they had their moments, especially Mom.

  Somewhere along the way, in the storms of life, she managed to hold herself together, never faltering. She did the things mothers do. She loved us and took care of us. We always had a roof over our heads, clothing on our backs, and food in our stomachs. We had birthday cakes, bedtime stories, hugs, kisses, and the little things that made us feel as though we mattered. My parents were mine, regardless of who they were or were not, and I am grateful to have had them.

  People cannot make you take their character as your own. As humans, we give ourselves to people every day, from the minute gestures to the grandiose. I, being my own person, can pick and choose what characteristics I want to incorporate from others as my own, taken into my repertoire of what makes me, me. My father, my mother, my grandmother, Kat, Benny, every person and every place I’ve traveled along the way, parts of them, the parts I chose, make up the fibers of my mind, my heart, my soul, who I am.

  I used to watch Gram with all her swagger, her strength, and charisma, the way she would always make the best of any situation. I don’t recall ever hearing my grandmother complain about anything. If something needed to be done, she did it, period. As a kid I watched her, I watched everyone, like a hawk, searching for the things within them I wanted to make my own. I knew from the age of six, I wanted her sand, her grit, and her resolve.

  Benny Goodman took a chance on me at fourteen years of age. He gave me my first job, my first real feeling of accomplishment. He believed in me, thereby allowing me to begin to believe in myself. He wasn’t family, no blood ties, and he gave me a place to live and loaned me the money for my first vehicle, my vessel to the world. His kindness carried me, lifted me up, and helped me to trust in someone other than myself.

  Kat, my baby sister, was a role model for me, even though it was not required of her. I was the big sister, the expected role model. Funny, quick to love, quicker to forgive, and talented, if Kit-Kat committed to you, you could count on her to be in your corner. She believed in me and in herself, even when she had nothing to believe in. Her life gave her some upsets, some bumps along the road, but she continued on with her dream, her ambition steadfast. She never gave up. I admire her so.

  Charlene, my beloved Chevelle, a car no less, but to me she was a friend, a freedom rider, an escape, my spiritual guru, all the time we spent together on the road, contemplating life.

  The boots my mother gave me, only objects, but to me they are as meaningful and relevant as a person, an extension of myself. Maybe I learned nothing directly from them, surely they couldn’t talk with me, correspond. But I discovered many things through them, fundamental things that will stay with me forever. It’s still difficult for me to wrap my mind around the fact that my mother wore those boots,
nearly delivered me in them, and now I wear them, keeping them for my daughter. Is it possible for three generations to walk in each other’s shoes, each journey taking a different fork in the road?

  My amygdala, that little almond-shaped group of nuclei, was even partly responsible for molding me. If not for my conditioned almond, at times I surely would have had an emotional overload.

  And that wonderfully handsome man sitting across from me, smothered in bubble bath, shaving my legs, my Miah, was so deeply embedded in every single thread of my being. I made many choices in my young life, and will surely make many more, but as I sit here, I am assured he was the best choice I ever made. And it was right in front of me all along.

  It’s amazing how we push against things, things that in our depths we know we want, we know are good for us, yet we continue to deny ourselves with a conviction unmatched. Maybe we do it because we don’t think we deserve that one true, good thing. Are we worthy? Maybe we do it because we think we need something different from what we want. It’s the most extraordinary thing, to embrace the life you never saw yourself living, truly astounding. Is it the universe, faith, destiny, or a combination? I have no idea. Sometimes the life you end up living is simply better than the one you pictured yourself in.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the pitter-patter of little feet coming down the hallway, the sound different this time, more like clop-clop-clop, followed by a clumsy thud-thud-thud.

  “What are they doing now?” Jeremiah smiled at me.

  “There’s no telling with those two.” I pulled my leg from his shoulder, hiding my body under the bubbles, my arms and face peeking over the side of the tub.

  “What one doesn’t dare to do, the other will,” he said, joining me stealthily, attempting to hide his large frame in the bubbly claw foot tub. We giggled as the sound of their footsteps approached, until the bathroom door swung open. And there they stood, our little cherubs.

  “Look, Momma!” Georgia exclaimed.

  “What do you think, Daddy?” Jackson asked.

  Apparently they had rummaged through our closet. Georgia-peach stood there, her long blonde ringlets hitting her shoulders, her green eyes looking at us hopefully, teeter-tottering, her balance getting a workout in my mother’s boots, my pink sundress swallowing her miniature frame and my lipstick shellacked around her mouth, a bracelet dangling off her tiny arm. And handsome-Jack, with his dark, wavy, surfer-boy hair and his dad’s beautiful browns, smiled, his face peeking out underneath a Kevlar helmet, his cheekbones smudged with black shoe polish, as he stood there in his camouflage Underoos and Jeremiah’s combat boots, ready to save the world. The smiles on their faces quickly reciprocated ours as we took them in. They were just gorgeous.

  “We’re you and Momma,” Jackson explained. Jeremiah laughed lightly, his right hand finding its way to the left side of his chest, over his heart.

  “So what do you think?” Georgia asked, as they turned circles in front of us.

  “I think I’m in love.” I smiled, unable to take my eyes off of them.

  “And I know I’ve got to be the luckiest man in the world.” Jeremiah’s face warmed with affection as he watched his children. “Get over here,” he said, as he held his arms out to them.

  There is nothing sexier, more attractive, more worthy than a man who loves his kids, his family. The way Jeremiah behaved with Georgia and Jackson, it moved me, affected me like nothing else. I would never have to worry their father would raise a hand to them, or to me. My children, our children, would know they were loved, accepted, wanted.

  Within each of us, there lies the innate ability to survive, triumph, and overcome, rewriting the scripts of our own lives, having some power over our fate and the fate of generations to come. Nothing has to be just because that’s the way it’s always been.

  Acknowledgments

  To Mom: Thank you for the boots. They have led me swiftly down roads well traveled, and even better down those less taken. What a perfectly wonderful gift, boots, a vessel by which to make my imprints in life. Mother’s, the concept still amazes me. In your one life, you gave life to three. You were my first love, the World’s Best Ma.

  To my sisters: There is no greater blessing than a sister, nature’s soulmate. I have looked up to and watched you both all of my life, your kindness, your courage, your love, your life, and I am in awe. Thank you for the endless inspiration and support. I can think of no greater people with whom to have come through the storm. You always had me, each one, in the palm of your hand. My heart is yours, as it has always been.

  To Dad: I pray you have found eternal peace. I see you, only in my dreams, you’re happy then. And I hear you everyday, in songs. Thank you for the music. I miss you.

  To Janet Kilgore, my Editor Extraordinaire: Oh, the dreaded ‘to be’ verbs! Thank you dearly for your time and patience. I have gained tremendous knowledge through this process with your guidance. You are such a comfort. I have grown accustomed and look forward to our future meetings garnished with coffee, scones and good conversation. It has truly been a pleasure.

  To Mrs. Ann Arehart Coyle, my high school English teacher: You signed my senior yearbook, “The world is your oyster.” I believed you. Thank you for believing in me.

  To Angie, Ginamarie, Stacy, Tammy, and Tanya, my Book Club: What is a book without good friends to share it? Thank you for your candor, insight and unwavering support. I am so proud to be in your company. XO!

  To Martie Wheeler and Scott McMahan: Thank you kindly for the ‘new eyes’ when mine were regrettably burned out!

  To Gram: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray.” You have been gone for 13 years and, still, not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. Thank you for the grit and the big beautiful family full of memories. You live within all of us. I miss you so.

  To James C: You were my first read. I love those times, you and me, alone in the still of the night, me reading my rough draft to you, you hanging on every word. Thank you for believing in me, every time. You are truly one-in-a-million.