The Rural Ethicist: These Boots are Made for Talkin'

By Katharine Adams

October 2025

It’s cozy soup and mum season again. It’s also time for witch hats, hanging spook skeletons and candy corn, all before the swirling snow arrives. There, I said it: snow. We appreciate the white fluff, if for no other reason than to live vicariously through skiers at The Ridge, or to enjoy the twinkling slope lights in the distance.

Boots Seen Out in the Field, by K. Adams

As soon as the mercury hits the low 60s, I pull my suede Olive Oyl-like platform boots from the closet, with their oddly wide oval tops circling my ankles. They’re goofy, but they’re spongy and I can stand for hours in them, so they’re keepers. I’m an old shoe-appreciator with an affection for a fun pair of kicks.

So it all begs the question: How have I become someone who leaves salt rings on my boots?

At one time, if I noticed a whitish, hazy line on somebody’s suede boot, it challenged my whole perception. That was back when relatively shallow things mattered. Now, I never even notice salt rings, let alone most shoes anymore (except maybe a vintage pair of well-kept, real Beatle boots). I assume that nobody else does, either. Or if they do, I don’t mind. And it doesn’t matter.

Back in more fashionable days, when God only knows how I had time for the fuss of turning out an outfit, things needed to be more than decent. There was a lot of time to press and preen and fiddle with garments. As for a favored pair of stompers, were there any hint of salty squalor, it was a triage scene.

Now? I just look at it. I say to myself, “Aw geez, look at that,” and keep walking onto the next thing.

I make a mental note of pesky salt rings and mean to do something about it, eventually. I don’t mean to step into a pair of sullied shoes and zip to my most frequent haunt (the grocery store), being seen looking unseemly—but life happens.

Truly, I’d like to vanquish my salty sins. But first, there’s always more pressing agenda. Besides, word on the street is that mom-fashion is serviceable and entirely relatable. And to fess up at the altar, I could give more hoots than our area owls.

I welcome liberation, anywhere it offers itself up. So I decide to wear my crepe soles of squalor out recently to a favorite, seasonal music festival in a pastoral setting. As I stepped into my trusty old suede bootlets, I noticed the faint salt rings from last season. I was a little disappointed they didn’t just somehow dissipate on their own, while I blinked at them. I mean, what else did they have to do all summer, lolling about in a closet?

I told myself a few inches of damp field grass would serve as a great foil, camouflaging my salty soles. Possibly, the evening dewfall might even serve to “rinse” them off. After all, the shameful ring appeared close to the ground, etched across crepe platform soles—rather than up higher on the vamp.

Obscuring the sins of my sole would require an onlooker to stand directly above my shoes and peer straight down. By contrast, when viewed at a distance, the tallish grass would do the job of hiding any salty evidence. This, I tell myself, renders my shoes decent enough for an outdoor concert; the sun’s going down, anyway. This is my feeble attempt to outsmart optical principles.

Salt rings on boots typically occur while walking through slushy snow. After moisture seeps into the leather, it eventually evaporates and leaves traces of mineral deposits. On the plus side, this salty evidence proves you’ve been places. It shows you value purpose and movement. My son offered this same appreciative perspective. It doesn’t matter if you’ve got salt rings, he observes, since it means you’ve been on the move. And that’s always a good thing.

Just as boots carry traces of salt, we carry traces of where we’ve been. In the end, did my grassy festival stroll serve to wash my salty feet? It sure did. Now, I’ve got stray pieces of grass telling a new tale.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The Rural Ethicist is a column about the culture of the daily mundane. It tolerates an occasional spider, values the bull in horse sense and seeks the gleaming, stainless steel wisdom beneath a film of cooking grease. Above all, it cherishes the gem of our shared existence: family. ruralethicstudio.com