An Obit for my boots: 1965-2024
My Frye boots, big, bulky and battered, the oldest living household survivor of my 1960s fashion sense, passed away peacefully Sept. 9 after a long period of increasing obsolescence and occasional embarrassment when I tried to put them on.
They were pre-deceased by my Nehru jacket, several pairs of bell-bottoms and a number of tie-dyed shirts.
The Frye boots, which were born to go with my “Georgy Girl” cap and my flower-power plaid denim pants, started life as an accoutrement before becoming symbolic of a consistent misunderstanding of fashion.
Reaching maturity in an era before selfies so we couldn’t see how odd we looked in love beads, buckskin vests and then floppy Borsalino hats, the boots were blocky and clunky and every bit as cool as my madras shorts.
They were boots made for walking, if you didn’t mind lots of pain and discomfort when you walked. And they were, of course, boots made for marching.
They marched in demonstrations and protested the war. They happened at happenings. They danced the twist and the monkey, the mashed potatoes and the monster mash, although they couldn’t tell the difference between one mash and another.
Sometimes, under duress, they even danced to Tommy James and the Shondells. And, although they didn’t like to admit it in public, they frugged. Mostly, they danced by themselves since no one wanted to get close to those two-inch block heels and my awkward dancing.
But after a long career associating with beads and beards, my Frye boots started, we ultimately realized, to no longer look hip. They looked around and no one was still frugging.
Without regularly scheduled happenings, annual be-ins and protest marches, they were overtaken first by penny loafers and then by running shoes, cross-trainers, Nikes and Skechers, orthotics and metatarsal patches. As we aged, they aged, too, and they did not age well.
Cast aside to the dim reaches of the closet, for years they had been in near-solitary confinement, alongside tire-tread beach sandals and scratchy straw espadrilles. When the closet finally got cleaned, it was clearly time for them to go.
The boots are survived by a college sweatshirt three sizes too small and full of holes, my pinstriped wedding suit with its shoulder pads and the wide lapels, and assorted psychedelic ties that no one would actually wear in public. There also may be a garrison belt somewhere in there, but I really hope not.
The boots will be remembered for their subtle neon yellow color and their commitment to make me finally look taller than I am.
In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions can be made to the Association to Eliminate All Photographic Vestiges of How Endearingly Weird We Looked Back Then (AEAPVHEWWLBT).