Little Brown Boots

I hate shoes.  I don't care how stereotypically Kentucky it is, but I would have no problem walking around barefoot on any given occasion.  When I was small the only pair of shoes I would keep on my feet for any length of time were my little brown boots.  Growing up I was at my Grandma's house just about everyday, and at the time my uncle lived with her.  He had long hair, drove a little red pick up truck, and always smelled like cigars or freshly mowed grass.  He always wore boots.  I can hardly recall him ever being inside the house.  He could always be found in the garage or out in the yard.  He could fix anything, and put up a fence, redid the deck, and built a shed in the backyard like it was nothing at all.  He was close to his mom, paced when he listened to music, liked taking pictures of flowers, and sometimes just needed to be left alone.  Sound familiar?  Little did I know I would grow up to be just like him.  There's a lot of talk now-a-days about kids of divorces.  I can honestly say that I never felt like I missed anything by not having a father, because I had something better.  I had a Dave.  He bought me my first bike, let me jump around on his waterbed, and always made my Grandma put me down so I could explore things on my own.  He no longer lives with my Grandma and he ditched the mullet long ago, but he still drives that little red truck.  We don't talk much now, but we're not really the talking kind.  Deep down I know that I'm still that little girl wearing a pair of little brown boots, wanting to be just like my uncle.