Being raised on a farm, work boots were a kind of necessary evil. None of them lasted very long after being exposed to barnyard manure and every other kind of acid a farm critter can produce. Lucky was the farmer who could get more than a year out of a pair of work boots. No matter how much mink oil or leather treatment a person used, sooner rather than later the boots' soles would separate from the upper and the laces would rot. Farmers always complained to shoe salesmen about the short life span of their boots, but to no avail. They always ended up getting out the checkbook and grinding their teeth as they left the store with a new box of boots.

My work boots were usually purchased by my parents without any input from me. They didn't seem to care about what style I might desire. Price came before function in their eyes, just like all other parents of farm kids. They knew that I would either lose a boot somewhere or get it to close to a saw or try to stop a tractor pulley with the sole and it was of no use to pay for work boots with an expected early demise of some sort.

Hence, most of my farm boots were plain black, smooth toed, 6-inch-high critters that chaffed my ankles and felt like wearing boards for about two weeks after they came out of the box. They weren't much to look at after being plastered with mud and smeared with alfalfa stains for a week.

Our farmhouse had an entryway where we were supposed to drop our boots before entering the house. My sister developed a really bad disposition when my brothers and I wore our dirty boots into the house. More than once we were scolded for being remiss in removing our clodhoppers before striding to the dinner table. It was a pain to always have to unlace the danged things. So much easier just to eat and run, but not in Betty's eyes.

The entryway had a large rag rug to the side and when the work of the day was done the family's work boots rested there. They were a motley lot to look at. My dad's boots were worn shiny from working the footpedals of the tractor and the tops of his boots always sagged to one side or the other. My grandfather's boots always sported tobacco juice stains from a mis-aimed shot of Union Standard plug tobacco. Beside their boots sat mine and my brother's cloggers, both beat to a pulp from riding rough-shod around the farmstead. Climbing trees, racing bicycles, kicking cats out of the feedshed and chasing the farmdog through the water pond had left their mark on our boots. My mother just winced when we came in from outdoors, hoping that another pair of boots wouldn't be needed until the next milk check.

I took up the sport of hunting at the age of 12. I was old enough to hoist a shotgun to my shoulder and had enough bulk to withstand the "kick" of a 12-gauge. There weren't any pheasant not worth chasing, no cottontail rabbit not worth searching out and no field too far to trek to. My regular boots were being tested and were not holding up very well under the pressure of the hunt. I had blisters the size of quarters and my ankles felt like they could detach at any time.

Luckily my birthday falls in mid-October, just when the rooster pheasants begin to cackle from between the corn rows. I always thought I was born at this time of year for the purpose of hunting pheasants. A man can have his dreams, can't he?

Well, on my 13th birthday morning a large box sat atop the kitchen table as I clomped down from my bedroom with my eyes half closed. I couldn't imagine what this gift might be. As I unwrapped the brown paper with horse saddles depicted thereon, I caught my breath. There was a white box with a giant Red Wing logo adorning the side and a large Irish Setter dog adorning the lid. Inside rested a pair of red colored, white-soled 10-inch-high boots. The smell of the leather was heavenly. Visions of flying pheasants virtually exploded from my brain neurons.

I laced the size 11's on and felt for the first time what a real boot felt like. They actually bent where they were supposed to bend. My ankles didn't feel like they were ready to collapse at any time. I felt like dancing and I think I did just that out the door of the house.

My hunting boots were not worn in the barnyard. They were reserved for striding from one corn row to another and crashing through head-high sunflowers in search of ringneck pheasants. They were my pride and joy. They lasted ten times longer than any of my previous boots. Mainly because I took care of them.

A good pair of hunting boots, well let's just say they're worth the price. Just don't wear them to my sister's dining room table.

See you next time. Okay?