DebraMilligan.com

 

Books for Everyone!

May 2022

These Boots are Made for Marching


Much can be gleaned about a person from the shoes and the boots that he wears: job or occupation; sensibilities, or taste; aspirations, or dashed hopes. In the olden days, American shoe-making told a story of courageous people, individuals who were ambitious yet practical, poor but resourceful.


Hand-sewn moccasins were among the first footwear made in the New World, sewn for the trappers of the fur trade by the crusty settlers in New England. That basic moccasin developed into the camp moccasin and the boat shoe, footwear of leisure for generations that viewed work as optional. Neither of those trademarked symbols of the leisure class are easily manufactured today in the U.S.A. As far as the casual, or cazh, loafers of the college-crowd go, they went the way of the Chinese dragon decades ago.


My website presents perhaps too much outrage and orneriness about the decline of manufactured footwear in this land of opportunity. My Naked Feet alone ventures into diatribe territory, a quest that ended on Thanksgiving Eve 2020. By that point in historic time, the naked-feet saga got re-kindled with a change of fortunes for The Patriots.

Size Small in clothing then returned to meaning Snug, not Small; and the boots Made in the USA suffered a setback. I’m glad I bought my Red Wing classics during the past few years. The patriot boot world shall emerge, once again, with the banning of The Bots, and the outing of The Bots, and the reality of sales/marketing/advertising without The Bots.


Bots can be replaced by Boots, but it’s up to the buyer to determine that fact of existence. The boots created for a sacred mission have a glorious history and legacy that must be renewed. If not now, then never.


Between the momentous years of 1896-1899, the hell-for-leather explorers and diggers of the Klondike Gold Rush trampled the Yukon, in western Canada, wearing tough expedition boots fabricated with the use of Norwegian stitch-down construction. At the very minimum, the stampede of prospectors sported a style of boot that lives to this very day, in varying degrees of fame and infamy. Many boots were made of Goodyear rubber, not necessarily of cow leather.

The granola groupies pay upwards of $1000 a pair for that boot-look of rugged individualism, a condition to which they are allergic. The horrified panic over free speech actually having a chance to live in the electronic public sphere, that mass panic will no doubt trigger the online purchases of more of those rough-and-ready work boots that are worn by the real workers of America, and of the world:


fireman, linemen, loggers (an endangered species of Homo sapiens), and the life-saving men and women clumsily re-dubbed First Responders.


The first response of the frantic-footed fascists in America to any indication of the Bill of Rights actually being acted upon, in a real world, is to kick-boot up for the onslaught of protests in the Nation’s Capital — starting this summer. The Summer of Love, anywhere, always was the Summer of Smelly, Dirty Hatred.

Protestor placards and specialized tee-shirts, provided by globalist-crap companies, ushered in the post-2016 manic-manufacture of fake news, on a global scale. It shall be fascinating to see which corporations underwrite the gear of the ginormous and ghoulishly-fed robots and bots of the Cancel-the-Constitution Culture. It’s entirely possible that the CEO’s who were told, who paid exorbitantly to be told — going woke is the best bet for your bottom line; those clueless CEO’s just might be feeling the pinch of being had, and for tons of money!


In America, the miraculously industrious phenomenon known as the Industrial Revolution gave birth to factory-machines such as the Goodyear Welt Stitching Machines. The military forces of America and the Allies were outfitted with those boots, many of which lasted longer than those wars for freedom and for democracy (and are for vintage sale online!).


Freedom and democracy nonetheless continue to undergo savage assault by the very people who beneficently benefit from those God-given liberties, but who seek to abolish, through any sneaky means possible — for everyone but themselves — the First Amendment, the U.S. Constitution, and those pesky Bill of Rights.

It shall be most interesting to see how the odious double-speak gets digitally converted into one-speak in a nation where speaking has been silenced by so many governmental agencies, officials, figureheads, bureaucrats and fonctionnaires.


The annoyingly so-called Long March Through the Institutions has ended for the cultural marxists and fascists. Their Long March to Destroy the Institutions is blatantly underway. Their Short March to the Jail Cell really ought to begin, but I doubt that it will.


Typically, the cream of any group floats to the top. In the F.B.I., however, the dregs found their way to the top layers of non-law enforcement. The same goes for all of the other alphabet agencies that cow-tow to the alphabet-people. We in the States need another alphabet, or, maybe we can return to the real ABC’s of life, and move forward to the turn of the 19th century into the 20th:

when a man was a man, a woman was a woman, a child was the offspring of a man and a woman, and the boot was made for serious business.


We’re into serious business here, in the New World, maybe in the Old World too. Pull up a lounge chair, grab a cool lemonade and some non-corporate tortilla chips, and relax by the picture window of life. Cleaning house has begun. The dirt can become noxious. I know; I’ve been waiting to finish cleaning house for two weeks. During mid-April, I got two rooms all squeaky-clean; then ten days of torrents of rain, cold temps, and frost put an end to my house-mouse plans. I refuse to perform domestic duties under frigid, windy atmospheric conditions.


Spring-like temps are forecast. I feel wishful-thinking compelled to believe the fiction-creator known as the Weather Forecaster. I’m rearing to go on cleaning the floors, dusting the furniture, and wiping down the kitchen counters.

Spring Cleaning is good exercise. It’s fundamentally rewarding emotionally, mentally, and, most sublimely of all, spiritually. Next week, the sun shall shine. I’ll get the rest of my domestic-goddess chores accomplished. I shall no longer need to wear combat boots and kneepads. My naked feet will feel much freer to go about their business of marching toward Pretoria, to those freedoms of expression, as I see fit.


Composing fiction — for literature, not for news, is how I see fit to deal with those freedoms of expression. Those boots made for marching can wait until autumn and those falling leaves of history — that are neither fictional nor fake.