Concerning Feet

At this hour, in the dead of fall, my house sits cold. I have taken up refuge by my fireplace. Here, in the town of Moorhead MN, the rain hasn’t stopped since yesterday, nor can it decide between liquid or solid form. My coffee press sits to my left. Being organic, fair trade, locally roasted and sold to me by a girl with dreads; I suppose the left is just about the only place it could be. As an aside, it is a dear wish of mine to one day decisively destroy the wretched belief that good culture, good coffee, good music and good books are things only enjoyed by self-identified liberals. As I purchased this particular batch of Honduran beans, I explained a few unfortunate side effects of Mr. Obama’s health manifesto to the young lady with the unique hairstyle. I can’t say which surprised her more: the number of people negatively affected by her savior’s actions or the presence of a conservative in her shop. I may never know. But this coffee is quite good and I shall return to her shop to tell her so, and to buy more.

Next to the press sits a collection of essays by Mr. G.K. Chesterton. I am supposed to be writing a review of that volume for readers such as yourself, yet I am ashamed to admit that as soon as I start reading an essay, an idea will strike me; an idea which demands I grab what ever scrap of paper is nearby to scribble it down. Mr. Chesterton is a writer who, like many popular athletes, gives the impression that his trade is easy. He deceptively suggests that anyone can do it.

The idea which so rudely interrupted Gilbert involves my feet. I happened to glance at them over the top of my book and found myself flooded with unspoken commentary. The feet of young women are often things of great beauty. Standing in a New York art gallery, among marble sculptures of queens and goddesses, I found that the marble representations paled in comparison to the sandle-strapped feet gathered about them. You mustn’t think I am being rude or lustful. Quite the opposite, actually. The feet are generally the least attractive part of a person. From the feet it is all uphill. I’ve found that when a woman is supported by such beautiful pedestals, it is best to thank God for his craftsmanship, then do an about-face to march away, preferably staring at the set the Creator was kind enough to give you.

Regarding my own pair, their likeness may be found among the Hobbits of Middle-Earth. I won’t be so rude as to describe them here, but they are so large that I haven’t yet lost a swimming race. Nor will my feet suffer too terribly if they are exposed to the cold. Yet I am not complaining. Like an old soldier, my feet have earned the right to look a little worse for wear. It was on them that I took my first steps. Come to think of it, I shouldn’t be too surprised that my feet aren’t much to look at now, since the Good Lord humbles the vain, and my first steps were taken to go look at myself in a mirror.

My use of them was soon set right as it fell to my feet to get me to school. Rain, snow, sleet or shine, my feet faced the harsh environment of the pavement, always flinging themselves ahead of me to see if the way was safe. They were strong enough to support me as I stood before the teacher, receiving my first detention. They were sporting enough to try their skill at soccer. Since they didn’t much care for that, we found a compromise in cross country running.

They stood beneath me through some of my brightest (and darkest) moments. When it came time to impress a young lady with dancing, my feet came through with flying colors. After, though they probably were unaware, my feet kept me upright during that beautifully awkward first kiss. It was my feet who walked all the way home with me after that first break-up.

They carried me across the Grand Canyon. They sat with me by many a campfire. As I learned to ski, they patiently persevered. They carried me to college and, in support of my public speaking habit, acted as my first soapbox.

In short, my feet have seen it all. They have proven to be dependable and firm. They have taken me where I needed to go and away from where I didn’t. They may not be the young beautiful things they were when I took my first steps, but through the years they have proved rugged, like a fine wine. In these respects, of dependability, durability and that grace which comes from years of adventures and trials, my feet are much like they who gave them to me, namely; my parents.