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.
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.