Reflections - Crunch, Jingle, Thud

Boot Chains

He says I’m a delicate butterfly.

But on Christmas morning, butterflies were as far from my thoughts as the warm summer days they decorated. Instead, I pondered a heavy box the size of a 700 page hardback novel. Clueless, I ripped off silver snowflake paper and opened my husband’s gift.

Boot chains. “Oh.” I pulled the contraptions out. Stainless steel chains jingled and hung from an oval of thick, flexible plastic.

Sitting across a heap of crumpled paper from me, Spence crossed his arms. “To keep you safe.” A smug grin flashed behind his mustache. “You’re a delicate butterfly.”

 

Walking over snow packed, icy roads did provide dramatic, gravity-defying moments. But chains?

As if he’d read my mind, he said, “I don’t want you falling and ending up in the hospital.” His toothy, proud-of-himself smile convinced me he’d thought about this gift.

“Okay, I’ll try them.” Once.

That afternoon, I squeezed a boot between my knees and tugged on the front plastic strap. Reversing the boot. I pulled the back into place. Cleats snugged against the tread. Boots tied with double knots, I stepped outside—and teetered. To cross the cement porch, I hung onto stacked logs and an Adirondack chair for balance.

“Don’t go down the steps,” Spence’s voice cautioned behind me. “Take the ramp.”

Sound advice. Doubting the wisdom of using the boot chains even once, I clutched logs and the chair on the reverse walk to the deck. My boot sunk into icy snow. Without a single wobble, I eased across the deck, down the ramp, and over the snow covered grass. Vehicles had packed the snow and ice to walkers-beware-slick on the road.

Crunch. The cleats sunk in. Crunch, crunch. I strode over ice steadier than I walked on dry summer dirt. Perhaps tiger swallowtails flitting between wild sunflowers had distracted me those warm days.

Beside me, wearing his new boots, Spence slipped.

“Do you want to try the chains?”

“No.”

Boot Chains on Boot

The next morning, without offering to share again, I grabbed the boot chains, layered up, and hung the camera around my neck—this time we walked in sunshine. A fox left prints running then walking on the berm. Deer trotted up snowy banks. A squirrel circled tree trunks. None of their prints had spikes like mine.

Under North Road bridge, Deer Creek burbled, and sunshine glittered on ripples. Snow capped rocks. I focused my lens on the sparkling scene.

Spence motioned for me to take his spot. “The angle’s great here.”

While side-stepping back and forth, I took several pictures then turned for the twenty-five minute walk home. With another quarter mile to go, I panted. “I need to sit. And a cup of tea would be nice.”

At Wells Wood, I trudged up the ramp and stamped my feet on the cement porch to loosen snow. Clink, thud. Clink, thud. Uh-oh. I glared at my boots. “A chain’s missing.” I dragged myself back to the road. No chain. “Let's get the truck and ride back.”

“We won’t see the chain from the truck. Besides, I might drive over it. Then we’d never find it.”

I headed down the road.

“You’re tired. Go inside. I’ll look for it.”

I couldn’t argue with being too tired to walk any further. Hoping Spence would find the chain before the first curve in the road, I slumped inside, brewed tea, and sat by the sliding glass door.

Minute after guilty minute, I stared at the empty road. The tea didn’t calm me. Neither did sitting. Finally, after fifty minutes of boot-chain-loser’s remorse, Spence came into view carrying his jacket and the chain.

“Where was it?”

“On the bridge. Where you took the photo.”

During the next walk, I didn’t see much scenery. Despite having pulled the plastic straps higher up the boot tops so the chains bear-hugged the tread, I bent my head to check the chains every ten yards.

At the Route 173 bridge, we leaned over the barrier to gawk at Deer Creek—running high, wide, and dark—then headed home.

“You sound cute.” Spence chuckled. “You sound like ‘Jingle Bells.’”

Maybe the straps loosened. The sounds and Spence’s comment gave me an ear worm. I marched to the song’s rhythm.

Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way

Crunch, crunch, crunch

Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh

Crunch, crunch, crunch

Woods Walk Wearing Boot Chains

Because I monitored the chains by sound, I reduced visual checks to every twenty yards. We made it home in record time. Spence only slipped and fell onto his knees once. “I’m fine,” he’d said.

On New Year’s Eve day, being an old hand at icy road walking, I switched to a woods walk. Three to four inches of wet snow cushioned our feet. Spence eyed fallen trees. “I can jack that cherry up.” His hands motioned imaginary cutting angles. “After the ground freezes. The tractor won’t get uphill now.”

Wet snow compacted under the chains forming five inch platforms. I wobbled, grabbed obliging tree trunks, and slapped my feet together to knock off the snowy impediments. I left a trail of smooshed-leaf ovals with snow clumps on the side. Sometimes the boots collected more on one foot than the other. Then I hobbled—lopsided—and vowed never to wear boot chains for a wet snow walk again.

 

Snow melted. Two and a half weeks of dry days ensued before the next snow made boot chains appropriate. Now, when I prepare for our health walk, I glance out the window hoping to see hard packed snow.

Flittering great spangled fritillaries would satisfy me too.

Great Spangled Fritillary on Burning Bush