Camp Chronicles, Part 3: The Demise of Ben’s Boots

A few months back, I wrote about Ben’s boots. Once persuaded (forced) to shed the snakeskins, he took to the “new” boots like a real cowboy. In fact, he wore the brown boots almost as persistently as the previous pair. The boots were with him at the Dinner Dance, the boots were with him at the Pre-K Concert, and the boots were with him on his first victorious 2-wheeler ride. But 2 days hence, the boots kicked the bucket.

I was in our cabin when it happened. Ben was playing outside with his cousins. Cousin Percy burst in. I could hear Ben’s wailing half a football field away.

“What’s going on?” I gasped, dashing for the door.

“Ben’s boot broke,” Percy said sympathetically. (Sweet kid—he’s 8 and probably couldn’t care less about the boot, but he cares about his cousin, so he seemed sincerely sad.)

“Ohhh,” I groaned—but only for a moment. I’d seen the sole separating from the body of the boot during the days leading up to this “tragedy” and felt much less distraught than the boys.

I simply reached for the extra pair of shoes I’d packed for Ben and handed them to Percy, along with some clean socks. By then, I could see Will tending to Ben’s hurt feelings.

“Here, give him these,” I instructed. And I returned to my book.

A little while later, I moseyed down to the playground, only to find Ben still wearing his surviving boot on one foot, and a formerly white sock on the other.

“Ben!” I exclaimed, confused. “Why aren’t you wearing your other shoes?”

“I’m not wearing those,” Ben grouched. “They’re stupid!” Loyal to the boots, to the end.

Vi tried to repair Ben’s boot the next morning, using half a roll of masking tape. Ben was delighted by big sister’s kind gesture. Unfortunately, his rough ’n’ tumble cowboy moves undid the fix in less than 5 minutes. Fortunately, the boot died the day before camp ended, and Ben agreed to make do with the so-called “fat shoes” for the brief remainder of our vacation.
. . . . .
I forgot to mention something small but significant about Ben the Beginner Biker in my ‘Banner Day’ post: The day after Ben’s first foray into the 2-wheeling world, he had a classic wipe-out.

We were headed to a friend’s cabin to visit, Ben wheeling ahead, Pearl and I lagging behind with the stroller. Ben kept wheeling, then stopping and waiting, then wheeling ahead again. It was bound to happen: On one of his re-starts, his wheel caught on the gravel, he lost his balance, and he fell, palms first, off the bike. Wiping the small stones off his meaty little mitts, he turned his teary eyes to me. At first, he cried because his hands hurt. Then, he got angry—at his bike, and at himself. It was a classic human experience, as far as I could see. I knew exactly how he felt, but I had to stand by and watch him process the aftermath of the fall. Of course, I could offer comfort, empathy and—wahoo!—ice:

One of the many great things about this camp is the level of familiarity, security—intimacy, really—among its inhabitants. While we were merely renting 2 tiny cabins for the week (a “boy cabin” and a “girl cabin,” which worked out great), many families from our church and surrounding churches in our denomination actually own cottages on the campgrounds. Ben’s wipe-out happened just outside the “O’H” cottage. I knew they wouldn’t mind us stopping for a handwash and makeshift icepack…even though, it turned out, they weren’t there. That was OK. I felt perfectly free to let myself in, along with my children. We helped ourselves to their potty, their soap and sink, and their freezer. There was even a plastic bag right there on the counter, which I stole, guilt-free.

It’s good to have friends. It’s good to have boots. (eBay, here I come—my boy needs a new pair-o-shoes!)