When I was around five or six, I begged and badgered my mother to buy me a pair of red leather clogs. They had wooden heels and a strap across the arch. I was obsessed with them. Though I suspect they were beyond our budget, my mother relented.
I remember prancing and stomping around the kitchen in them the first night I got them. I begged my mom to let me wear them to bed. This she would not abide. So I carefully laid them out where I could see them first thing in the morning and went to bed dreaming of being Dutch.
When I awoke, I ran to the place where I had placed my shoes, but they were not there. I discovered them, shredded and sodden, on the living room sofa.
While I stomped through tulips fields and past windmills in my slumber, our Norwegian elkhound puppy was happily gnawing on his new chew toys.
I wept and wailed in disbelief. I begged for new clogs, but it was not to be.
On Saturday, Nora and I set out on a mission to find some practical boots for the wet autumn to come. We came home with these…
I wanted her to get a gray suede set with appliqué flowers. But they were declared insufficiently fancy.
Then she spotted these boots, in all their red patent leather glory. And I saw that she loved them with a clog-like passion. So I bought them. And the prancing and stomping has not ceased since.