My sister and I both have a thing for boots.  We have for years.  It takes up a ridiculous amount of closet space in my tiny house, but it’s worth it.  I have been described as the girl who will happily wear a $9 shirt and $300 boots.  I will wear boots and jeans in July. I am just that way.

We finally figured out that the boot thing was genetic.  This advertisement has been hanging in the hallway of our family’s house, since time out of mind:

That’s right.  Our great grandfather was a boot maker.  We have boots in the blood.  (Also pirates and beauty queens and countless generations of farmers, all of which I try to remember on days when my confidence needs shoring up.) We were bound to love boots, and also men who wear them.

Which brings me to the point:  Friday night my crowd and I went to hear Tonk and The Jackets at Kings.

It was great fun. Seriously, show up with a pedal steel guitar or a fiddle and I am weak in the knees; a night with both is almost too much for me to handle. Tonk played a straight-up country set, which the crowd loved. They had everyone swaying with the honky-tonk slow dance number towards the end.  The Jackets switched it up with a little bit of everything, from Americana to pop to a Johnny Cash cover. These boys have talent.  “Holding On” is officially my favorite.  But the best part of the evening was when they closed with a cover of “Cowboy Boots.”  For real. Everyone went nuts.

And then my boots and I walked home from Kings, and it was a perfect early summer night, and I had to duck under tree branches weighted down by crepe myrtle blossoms, while the cicadas made an enormous racket.  Summer, y’all.  It’s not half bad so far.

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