So today, I drove from west Austin to South Congress just below downtown and LadyBird Lake hunting Texas Traditions,
When I sat back down to figure out what I was going to do, I got to thinking about boots and my life wearing boots and I thought I would just tell you a couple of pitiful Sable stories because then you know how totally weird I am.
When I was wee, my mother desperately tried to make a girly-girl out of me, and I do have some of those tendencies, I’m just not a pure frou-frou. I used to have really long hair, down past my ass long hair and I had it a long time. Just imagine, my mother would put bows in my hair and she would dress me in these frilly dresses that had petticoats underneath them that made them stand out – sorta like little girls wear to pageants but Mother dressed me like that to go to church and the grocery store. I could live with the bows and the petticoats – but that wasn’t all…she would buy these little patent leather shoes and frilly thin socks. Gag! She used to tell me that she would dress me up so pretty and I’d be looking like an ad for a Little Miss Priss magazine and then I would start to cry – – bitter, loud, holding breath, kicking, screaming and Mother would say that I would yell – “It’s all right but the Socksies!!!!!”
So, she’d take them off and I’d pad off barelegged looking like I’d just come out of the cotton field I guess.
That trait, refusing to wear socks of any kind continued…and that’s hard to do when one loves cowboy boots!
Every summer my family had a tradition that we carried forth with an uncle and an aunt and two cousins of mine. We’d go to Six Flags over Texas near Dallas and this was an important day for me. I took my amusement park excursions extremely seriously. And I was hard to control – once they let me through the gate I would run rampant, not stopping to eat or drink or rest – I just wanted to ride as many rides as many times as possible. But one year I didn’t choose my outfit appropriately and I guess Mother wanted to teach me a lesson.
Such was Sable’s Vacation when Country came to Town.
While we’re on the subject, let me tell you about the first time I cut my hair. I was young, probably six and my mother went into the hospital to have part of her colon removed due to cancer. I was an only child at the time, good old days, and my father was in charge of my care. He was all thumbs and couldn’t do a thing with my hair… Now, let me digress. I had a boyfriend. Yes, I did. His name was Keith and he lived about a mile from me. I would see him when we would go visit friends of my parents named Bert and Cecil (Bert was the woman). Keith and I would play outside with his dog and he thought I was pretty, he said so. We’d hold hands and take walks and chunk pinecones. Anyway – – – when my dad couldn’t take care of my hair while mother was in the hospital, he took me to the hairdressers and had it cut off. CUT OFF! Honestly, I don’t think I cared. He took the decapitated ponytail tied with a red ribbon to the hospital and my mother cried. Still, didn’t bother me…. But what did bother me was that when I went to see Keith – he didn’t know me! He swore I wasn’t me because my hair was gone. I mean, I had hair, shoulder length bouncy screwy curls but the long Rapaunzel locks were long gone. Another bout of tears! Looking back on it, I’m sure I was better off without Keith – he either only liked me for my looks or used my new-do to get rid of me for some other reason.
During my life, I’ve had an odd relationship with my hair and my footwear – both are symbols of femininity and I’ve never really been traditional about either.
My hair grew back but I didn’t rehook up with Keith. And the boots…well, I always wore boots. My favorite pair was ones I had in college, cream colored with multi-colored stitching. I remember wearing them on a date to the rodeo with white jeans, a purple cowboy shirt and a good looking dude in a cowboy hat. (I still had on no socks, but I think I just pulled my boots off and enjoyed making out in his truck.)
Oh well, I never claimed to be normal – – I walk to a different drummer – – or limp – – since I have on no socks with my boots…