The recent death of my father

[DJole]

My father passed away at 1:30 this morning.

He suffered a heart attack (not his first) 3 weeks ago, but he was unable to recover from it.

My father retired from the US Forest Service about 15 years ago, and in his retirement he built and rebuilt boots for Drew's Western Wear in Klamath Falls, Oregon.

The last thing he and I talked about, before his heart attack (which happened at his work down in the boot shop) was boots. We talked about boots quite a bit--I realize, now, that it was because here was something he could really share with his college-educated son. He knew I worked with leather, and he worked with leather, so he wanted to share that with me. My father and I weren't distant, but I think that this was a visceral connection that he enjoyed.

There was a pair of 10" Hathorn packers that came into his possession--they were brand new, but the UPS deliverer had placed them on the porch of the person who purchased them, and dogs had smelled the rawhide and chewed into it. UPS paid for a new pair of boots, and the client sent these on to Drews, where they reached the hands of my father, who realized that they were my size, and rebuilt them for me, even sewing on a welt where in the original construction there was none.

So, in his memory, I wrote this poem, which you folks as leather workers might appreciate.

You may rest assured that I will wear those boots and remember him with love.

---

Boots: 10 inch packers

The last thing we talked about

Father to son, before he died

Was boots.

If a man works with his hands

And his feet

Balanced on fir roots, sweating on the fire line,

Raising sons out of the forests

he needs tough skin

good boots

to protect the tenderness

of the sole of the foot

of the soul.

The vamp–a dull color of blood and dust together,

the blood of his veins

the dust of the wild places he loved

Buffed and waterproofed

to keep my feet warm and dry,

I am wrapped tightly

by the work of his hands

embraced by his arms.

The 10 inch upper–black as Cascade duff in the snow-melt,

high to support the ankle

and keep me upright as I walked,

Upright as he walked and I followed,

10 inches high

he walked firm and strong,

and I followed him through the trees.

The laces–black leather,

earth tones and primitive

–he knew that woven laces wear out too quickly

in the wilderness

when you need them the most

so he wove thick, square laces

as long as my life

of my boots.

The heel counter–rawhide,

to protect against spurs

I will never wear,

rawhide white and strong as tough sagebrush country

sprinkled carelessly over basalt rimrock

the color of semi-arid soils.

The color of his face, worn as the seasons changed around him

faster than he could walk.

I was his spring, and his summer,

and I knew he would be my winter,

death under snow, waiting silently for rebirth.

The soul is eternal–

the sole is mini-Vibram,

not caulks for traction on the logs

not cowboy for ease in the stirrup

not deep cleats for muddy trails;

chosen by him

not for the dirt

the soils

the rock where he worked

but for my easier, paved trails.

He could re-sole them for me, he said.

And he has re-souled

I am his soul living in me.

These boots,

his loving hands reach out

practical, strong and rugged

built to take me into wild places

and even the wild places

he never knew

the untracked wildernesses

of college corridors

library carpets

worlds beyond his hillsides.

These are not new boots–

New, they would have been too dear.

Discarded, they became dear to him.

He re-crafted them, re-built them

turning waste into care

building leather into love,

using tools and hands and materials

a love for craftsmanship and raw, animal material

life and death crafted into usefulness

One thing, at least, that we shared

Deftly stitching a welt where none existed before

Because in his art, his craft,

he knew quality boots can be re-built.

He knew–

His own boots had passed through the years,

forward through my childhood, tattered and worn,

patched and replaced–all but the uppers were new,

but they were the same boots.

The supple texture of boot leather,

the smell of hides,

thread and glue

stitched us together in his heart.

My soles can be rebuilt

My soul stitched together with his,

father and son

His soul goes onward,

tattered and patched

to be rebuilt, vamp, upper, sole and counter

Into beauty and usefulness

by the Maker.

Edited October 31, 2008 by DJole

[rgerbitz]

I am sorry to hear of your fathers passing, the poem is beutiful. Thank you for sharing.

Rob Gerbitz

[tonyc1]

Really nice.

Tony.

[Bree]

My deepest sympathy on the passing of your dad. It is a testament to your love for him to craft such a moving poem.

[Johanna]

A very moving poem. Sorry you lost your dad.

{{hugs}}

from your friends at LW

[bruce johnson]

One of the finest tributes I have ever read.

[rdb]

There could be nothing more a Father could have hoped for from his son. Love, Respect, and Understanding. Cherish the memories. His strengths are now yours.

[Denise]

My sympathy on the loss of your father. Your poem speaks volumes about you both.

[The Major]

My condolences to you and your family. I pray the Great Architect gives you comfort in this time.

[King's X]

Please accept my family's condolences....

From Austin, Tx

[ArtS]

I am so sorry to hear about your father passing away. You and your family are in my prayers.

Your poem was a great tribute to him and something that your children will also cherish their whole lives.

Art

[hidepounder]

That's a fine tribute! Please accept my condolences.

[TroyWest]

I'm very sorry for your loss. Our thoughts and prayers are with you. I have little doubt that your fathers love for you was very great. It is evident in his kindness toward you. I have little doubt that your love for him was also very great. It is evident in your thoughts toward him at this time. We pray that abundant grace and peace be yours at this time.

[Hidemechanic]

D.

As your heart mends, may your soul swell with the gift your father has passed to you, that you will pass to your offspring and share with those around you.

You have honored us in sharing your appreciation of such a great gift. GH

[KimRulien]

Geez I am sitting here crying!

I am sorry about your dad...I lost mine a year and a half ago, he was a horse man we loved our horses and riding. My dad passed away from Cancer at home in his bed with us all around...talking about the horses etc...

Your poem was wonderful, It made me cry...I am sure your dad is very proud of you.

I have been thinking lately that I should have started doing all my leather work years ago so my dad could have seen it, man he would have loved it!

Thanks for sharing with us