My Florida

Traveling Shoes

My Florida by Melody Murphy

Last 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 traveling shoes.

My traveling shoes had hiked mountain trails, marched up hills, and walked beside waterfalls. They clambered over boulders, rambled by rivers, and ambled along charming streets. They strolled through museums, botanical gardens, and orange groves in bloom. They chased rainbows and sunsets, meandered through sunflowers and clover, and traipsed all over a Christmas tree farm. They climbed trees, scaled an observation tower, and scrambled over fences. They tapped their toes to the blues and trekked through dark pastures to gaze at shooting stars and full moons. They went to the beach at freezing midnight to shiver beneath a lunar eclipse. They dashed through snow and jogged down dark streets to make a little night mischief.They trudged through mud and sprinted through rain, splashed in puddles and skidded on slick rocks.

My traveling shoes came off to wade in a cold creek on a hot day. They stepped into the red clay of a cotton field to steal a boll or two, roamed roadsides to pick phlox, stood in the piney woods at night to marvel at fireflies. They braked for interesting sights and to reattach a car bumper with duct tape, pressed down the gas pedal on a pilgrimage to find pink dogwoods and fried green tomatoes. They followed owls and foxes, bluebirds and butterflies. They sauntered beside the best of friends and wandered in wonder through beautiful places. And perhaps they did a little trespassing down some memory lanes.

My traveling shoes supported me as I discovered my roots, searched for family, explored old cemeteries, revisited old haunts, and found new ghosts. They left my footprints all over North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida from coast to coast, up to St. Augustine and down to Tampa.

The shoes were a little shabbier after each trip. The lining wore away. The memory foam forgot everything it ever knew. Stories stained my shoes, along with barbecue grease and whiskey, splashes of spilled hot sauce and hot chocolate. After every trip I’d shake from my shoes a seasonal confetti of creek pebbles, mountain-road gravel, dried clover, biscuit crumbs and autumn leaves, fir needles and glitter, pollen and petals, sand and salt.

The soles became scuffed and stained with red clay. But was it from the dusty yard of the railroad cafe, the farm full of Cherokee roses, a fern-flanked trail to a waterfall, the muddy shore of an iris-ringed pond, or ancestral graveyard dirt from the family plot? Roots grow from the soil. So does remembrance.

My traveling shoes led me on adventures in all seasons. Like the song says, they’d seen fire and rain and sunny days–but not a lot of lonely times. I’d been happy in those shoes. I’d traveled to places I loved with people I loved, making miles of memories along the way.

The old traveling shoes are retired now. They’ve become yardwork shoes, but they went to some beautiful places and had some wonderful times in their day. They’ve been succeeded by the new generation of traveling shoes, which are oh-so-ready to travel again and walk somewhere besides the graveyard within sight of my porch.

And this time, I bought two pairs.