So, I had much in common with my dad: my mouth, my brown eyes, my dark hair that whitened early … but what I recall the most is how neither one of us liked to wear shoes. First thing off in the evening after work? Shoes. Maybe we liked the feel of earth beneath our feet, that connection with a living force. I don’t know. He was (usually) good about picking up his shoes. Me? Not so much. Every once in while I’d be suddenly bereft of shoes and have to make my way to the basement. There, I would find them all, scattered among the dirty clothes in the big wooden laundry bin where they’d come to rest after a quick trip down the laundry chute.

Today, what I’m sure of is that old habits die hard. I generally have to search the entire house for shoes, and more often than not, they can be found in the computer room, the first space you encounter when arriving via the garage. Sometimes, you can find ALL of my shoes there, plus a few in the living room and, yes, the less popular ones in the closet. Maybe.

I’m also pretty sure that my husband Charlie is a smart-ass. Because I woke up today, stumbled out to the computer room to check the weather, flipped on the light, and there, leading the way to my desk, were my shoes, well some of them, anyway. The ones that were living in the computer room.

They led the way like sentinels — like guardrails or berms. I laughed out loud for a long while, all alone in the early morning. And you wonder why I love this man? That’s why. Grateful.