Tuesday, February 8th, 2011

I was waiting in the parking lot of the hotel for a lift into town from the air base where I was staying. I’d been hiking through the countryside of southwest England all week, but was taking some time off to hang around town, browse the book stores and pick up a few knick-knacks for souvenirs.

The cop who was going to drive the little ten-passenger bus that would take us into town motioned me aside and said, “I’ve got something for you,” so I followed him down the hill to a small shed by the side of a pool. On a table outside the shed were a pair of well-worn combat boots. Almost all the polish had been stripped off and the soles were missing. “My boots!” I shouted. “Where did you find them?” The Cotswolds, he told me, but I already knew that. They were sucked off my feet while I was trying to cross a bog.

I thanked the cop, a young fellow who never smiled but liked to hike and liked to talk about it. We exchanged one or two stories on the walk back to the parking lot. Then I got on the bus, which had turned into a huge red Radio Flyer wagon, he grabbed the handle and he pulled me into town. Slowly.

Personal to Sean: Dream.

Boots | 6:07 am CDT
Category: story time | Tags:
1 Comment | Add a comment

One Comment

  1. 1 The Seanster said at 3:27 pm on February 8th, 2011:

    Clarification is appreciated.