a man's boots

My grandfather is 92 years old and wears cowboy boots every day. His boots always come to mind when I think of him. He is a man that I always enjoy hearing talk about his life. His stories are about hard-work and the joy and pain that come with it. He has lived through the advent of the telephone, the great influenza epidemic of 1918 that killed his mother and many other Americans, the Great Depression, and several year-long labor strikes. But his stories are always up-beat with mentions of community dances and parties so people could share food during what he calls the hard times, he talks fondly of meeting my grandmother when, on a break from cattle herding, he rode up to her at a well and she offered him water, honing his talent as a miner, and meeting people that have become life long friends in those moments. I relish these stories and the insights he has because of these experiences. Believe me, I could talk for days about all of the collected memories we share, but now that the time I spend with him is less frequent I call upon my memory to remind me of them. When I do so, one image rushes to the forefront of my mind. That image is his boots.

As far as I know, his boots have made the rounds with him for about the last quarter century of his life—all the years of my life or maybe longer. The steps he takes in those shoes are the steps that are part of who I am. When I was little I watched him pull galoshes over them to shovel snow during the harsh Butte winters, I watched him leave paths of smushed grass when he watered the summer-length lawn, I watched him give my brother and sister “horsy rides” on the end of his leg when they were babies, I watched him take long morning walks in those after breakfast, and smash pop can’s under his feet on the concrete in the garage. I gather comfort from knowing that there is something as simple as a pair of shoes that make my grandfather make sense to me.

I like that the things I love so much today are pieces of my grandparent’s and parents lives before I knew them. My grandmothers’ earrings, pins, and plates, my grandfathers’ jeans, boots, and hats, my mother’s books, camera, and photos, and my father’s records, belt buckles, and t-shirts; I like that when I hold these things or wear these things I come to know them in a different way. I like how I get a better sense of them as an individual. I like that these things were loved by them and have become important to me and also hold the potential to become something special to someone else in the future. For me, the handing down of objects is part of the intergenerational fabric of my life, it keeps their history (and somewhat my own) current and alive. I like that. I like that history isn’t just the past because for me it as present as the boots on my grandfather’s feet.

yes, we can

Do you remember your first political instruction?

I do. It came, initially, when my grandfather decided I was capable of grasping the magnitude of party preference. I think I was seven. I must have been seven, because that was 1991 and it was leading up to an election year. He said, you, you’re a BICD, and don’t you ever forget it. Well, walking around saying that meant very little to me way back then. Who cares what a seven year old thinks? But now, now it matters. ‘BICD’ is roughly translated as “Butte Irish Catholic Democrat” and in a town like Butte where the holy trinity of Ethnicity, Political Affiliation and Religion makes the man-- a place where a seven year old girl's party affiliation is just as important as a 70 year old man’s.

Well, today I am just as much the BICD I was when I lived in Butte only an older, more educated Seattleite (who just happens to be admittedly less catholic). Regardless, why is this important? Well, my grandfather is one of the most instrumental political figures in my life. A man whose lessons and wisdom stressed community centeredness, an obligation to serve, a duty to others, loyalty to the collective, and an unwavering awareness of the potential of a life incorporating these values. He also happens to be a staunch supporter (still) of John Kennedy. And last summer I had a conversation with him about politics and about what I perceived to be a tremendous change on the horizon. And, fittingly, he told me a story…

“In the 1960s, I was an unemployed WWII veteran with five children and a mortgage. I was in need of something that made my life make sense, something that could lift me from the uncertainty and pressure of my responsibilities, something that would ensure a promising future for my family and for my community. I was ready to vote for change”

Last Christmas I was having a conversation with him about Barack Obama and he sat across from me and said, “have you noticed I haven’t said anything to you, now it’s your generation’s turn, I’m old hat, but you all want change.”

I left the room and walked into the dining room and climbed a ladder that happened to be there from an earlier venture into the upper closet. Tucked away in the back corner was something i'd nver seen before. Inside, tucked away, was a voluminous stack of newspapers from the 1960s that chronicled the campaign, election, inauguration, and assassination of JFK. I didn't know what to think and then almost immediately something really powerful washed over me, in onlya a mere few seconds, for the first time in my life, I think I understood what a movement meant to a person, I understood what it was like for someone to be part of a movement for change.

I want that feeling. I want to feel like I am part of something that monumental. That a political figure’s ability to change the course of history, to move the world with words, to bring together a polarized society in equality and equitability is possible. That feeling is important to me. And that assertion is the most profoundly certain I have been in quite some time.

I want to one day tell my grandchild that something really mattered, that I, too, was part of a movement. Like my rather inspiring grandparents, who you see flanking President Kennedy in the photo above.