06/03/2026
Tonight, I finally retired my old work boots.
Margaret has been trying to get me to put on a new pair of boots for months, but I refused. My philosophy was simple: if the old boots were still attached to my feet, they still had life left in them.
Well, tonight Margaret found me sitting in the garden pulling a thorn out of my foot.
"How'd that happen?" she asked.
Turns out the sole of my boot had more sunlight coming through then the sun on an uncloudy day. My work boot had become a convertible.
At that point, even I had to admit the old boots had finally given their two-week notice.
Those boots survived gardens, compost piles, hard mower decks, tractors, chicken pens, mud, rocks, briars, and years of abuse. They were so worn out I could identify different soil types by feel without taking them off.
Margaret just looked at me and said, "You know, you have a brand-new pair sitting in the house."
She was right, but I wasn't about to quit on those old boots while they still had a pulse.
Unfortunately, they died doing what they loved: letting sharp objects poke me in the foot.
Rest easy, old friends. You've earned your retirement. 😂👢
P.S. Margaret was right, but let's keep that part between us. 🤫🤣
