My Florida Traveling Shoes
By Melody Murphy [melody@ocalasgoodlife.com]
L
ast year when I started walking every day in the cemetery behind my house, I quickly discovered that my old shoes had also reached the end of their life. I’d only had these shoes for three years. To me, that is not long. But if you Google, “How often should you replace walking shoes?” you get quite a different answer. Why had these come to the end of their road sooner than ever before? Then I realized. These had been my travelThe author and her traveling shoes at right, with friend ing shoes. and traveling companion Laura at left, in North Carolina. My traveling shoes had hiked mountain trails, marched up hills, and walked beside waterfalls. They clambered over boulders, rambled roots, searched for family, explored old cemeteries, revisby rivers, and ambled along charming streets. They strolled ited old haunts, and found new ghosts. They left my footthrough museums, botanical gardens, and orange groves prints all over North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, in bloom. They chased rainbows and sunsets, meandered and Florida from coast to coast, up to St. Augustine and through sunflowers and clover, and traipsed all over a down to Tampa. Christmas tree farm. They climbed trees, scaled an obserThe shoes were a little shabbier after each trip. The vation tower, and scrambled lining wore away. The memory foam forgot everything over fences. They tapped it ever knew. Stories stained my shoes, along with barbetheir toes to the blues and cue grease and whiskey, splashes of spilled hot sauce and trekked through dark pastures hot chocolate. After every trip I’d shake from my shoes a to gaze at shooting stars and seasonal confetti of creek pebbles, mountain-road gravel, full moons. They went to the dried clover, biscuit crumbs and autumn leaves, fir needles beach at freezing midnight to and glitter, pollen and petals, sand and salt. shiver beneath a lunar eclipse. The soles became scuffed and stained with red clay. They dashed through snow But was it from the dusty yard of the railroad cafe, the and jogged down dark streets farm full of Cherokee roses, a fern-flanked trail to a waterto make a little night mischief. fall, the muddy shore of an iris-ringed pond, or ancestral They trudged through mud and sprinted through rain, graveyard dirt from the family plot? Roots grow from the splashed in puddles and skidded on slick rocks. soil. So does remembrance. My traveling shoes came off to wade in a cold creek My traveling shoes led me on adventures in all on a hot day. They stepped into the red clay of a cotton seasons. Like the song says, they’d seen fire and rain and field to steal a boll or two, roamed roadsides to pick phlox, sunny days–but not a lot of lonely times. I’d been happy stood in the piney woods at night to marvel at fireflies. in those shoes. I’d traveled to places I loved with people I They braked for interesting sights and to reattach a car loved, making miles of memories along the way. bumper with duct tape, pressed down the gas pedal on a The old traveling shoes are retired now. They’ve pilgrimage to find pink dogwoods and fried green tomabecome yardwork shoes, but they went to some beautiful toes. They followed owls and foxes, bluebirds and butterplaces and had some wonderful times in their day. They’ve flies. They sauntered beside the best of friends and wanbeen succeeded by the new generation of traveling shoes, dered in wonder through beautiful places. And perhaps which are oh-so-ready to travel again and walk somewhere they did a little trespassing down some memory lanes. besides the graveyard within sight of my porch. My traveling shoes supported me as I discovered my And this time, I bought two pairs.
The memory foam forgot everything it ever knew.
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OCALA’S GOOD LIFE retirement redefined
