When her son’s girlfriend was searching for cowboy boots, Darya Mead had the right pair available.
I consider myself a collector, though ‘gentle hoarder’ might be an apt description. So, when my son’s girlfriend was hankering for a cool pair of cowboy boots — and we were both size 8 — I hatched a plan to give her my cherished 30-year-old custom-made black pair.
Reverently kept up, a fresh leather treatment seemed to do the trick. With a lot of mileage, worn and lived in, they are just perfect. In 1993, when reeling from a devastating breakup, I walked past a long gone, little hole in the wall, artisan shop on Fillmore Street in the Lower Haight, and saw them in the window.
Lo and behold, they were hand crafted, never picked up and my size! I treated myself to these boots and they helped me heal, get past my anger of betrayal and deception, and work towards a different future than imagined. As I stumbled forward, they were balm for my soul and made me feel feisty, fierce, strong and beautiful, like I could somehow command a different reality.
I wore them to parties, traveling, work and many other places for three decades; reserved for those moments when I needed a little moxie. Tackling the San Francisco hills in them was often tricky. They were also slippery when it had rained or Karl the Fog had kissed the pavement. Cut to 2025, I have some foot issues: a few gnarly sprains, many years of dancing and hiking miles and currently, an utterly pathetic case of heel plantar fasciitis.