unfavorableinstigation:
Growing up, my brother and I deeply dreaded going shoe shopping. It took hours, especially if it was for winter boots. My dad would examine the stitching, the brand reliability, the temperature recommendations, every piece of information he could get his hands on, and then when he’d finally found the right brand, it was on to making absolutely dead sure they fit properly - he had a particular way of poking the toe of the boot to ensure our foot was where it was supposed to be that always drove me nuts. This was always on a weekend, and it was about the worst punishment we could imagine.
Years later, I found out that he’d spent his entire childhood on the Canadian prairies with cold feet. My grandmother just bought whatever boots looked like the best value, regardless of whether they’d keep anyone warm. They’d kept him from frostbite, probably, but never, ever comfortable.
The reason my grandmother never had a thought about this was because she was buying her kids real boots. There was a sort of magical quality about real, purpose-made boots that meant that of course they’d work, because when she was growing up on the Canadian prairies, they had the kind of no money that meant you just stuffed some newspaper into your shoes and soldiered on.
The last pair of winter boots my dad bought for me was 15 years ago, in preparation for a three-month stint living in northern Quebec in midwinter. They cost $200 then, or something like it. I’ve worn them every year since, driving out to the remotest locations on the Canadian prairies and never once thinking about my feet.
When I read the Vimes Boots Theory for the first time, it rang a bell that reverberated back three generations.
Hmm. Okay. So. A lot of people have been tagging this with “the way men love”, after that popular poem, or saying in the tags that this is the way my dad told us he loved us. And that was certainly a tangible way he showed it, and a legitimate one! In a society where we don’t like to let men show their emotions openly, that’s a thing men do. To be honest, I think telling us my grandmother’s story was a way for him to show love as well - for us and for her.
But I want to say, for his sake but also for all of yours, that my dad told me he loved me every single day of my childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood. The phrase, repeated ad nauseam by both my parents, was that they loved me “always and forever, no matter what”. My dad probably said that phrase, with its sentimental gooeyness, more than my mom. Even when we were mad, even when I was a teenager and absolutely everything was wildly embarrassing. He still says it, when we’re having a Moment, eyes twinkly and kind of proto-teary. If we’re not having a moment, if it’s just a regular day, my dad just tells me he loves me every time he sees me.
I just want you to know that that’s a thing men do, too.
