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My mother cared about footwear. As a gift, it was her “thing.” Her taste was high-quality, and the pink and green rain boots that she gave me were top-notch. The boots aren’t particularly stylish (I do not care about that), but they make me feel good.

I like those boots because they provide support for rough cottage-country terrain. But there’s another reason. Here’s where I admit my fear of snakes––another gift from my mother. In 1962, when my father cleared the land, the upheaval sent snakes slithering past our ankles. My mother, helplessly petrified, would take to higher ground. Her fear was convincing. Her heart-stopping screams etched their way onto my psyche. I too became afraid…until I got my boots. Now, when a snake crosses my path, my visceral reaction is still to scream. But I remind myself that the snake is not likely to hurt me. My trusty boots have been instrumental in overcoming the fear. They may only be thin rubber, but, in my mind, they’re armour, and my toes, ankles, and calves are protected. (Plus, I like the metaphor: the support/motherly love/getting-over-fear thing.)

I wear these boots while gardening and tramping through the bush, and especially on hot days when snakes head to the lake for refreshment. I also wear a third gift that my mother gave me––burgundy, elbow-length canvas-and-suede gardening gloves. They don’t match the boots, but when I wear them together, I am fearless.

This short story is published in Cottage Life, Waterfront, (May 2016)