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For a few weeks, I have always had a feeling of coming to an end—the September feeling of the summer past, another autumn, another page turning, but it seems to be more melancholic.

I didn't really feel this feeling until the last farmer's market. The man began to comment on my boots.

Put on a pair of super cute bright high heels or lace-up sandals, and women comment that your shoes are pleasant and not strange-but what about men? I can wear a plastic bread bag on my feet. I don't want my husband to notice unless I complain when I walk through a punctured vine.

Therefore, I was a little surprised that a few men started to notice and comment on my well-worn, well-loved leather boots.

As I walked through the market, I heard comments like: "Does your boots know that it should be a banana?" or "It looks like you need to do some separate searches." "It looks like you and Achilles They all have something in common."

The boots are tan, faded from dark brown, and have served me for many years. They spent an era of travel, joy and love with me.

Unfortunately, the signs of aging can no longer be obscured by polishing, patches or willpower. The seam has been pulled to the breaking point, and now the worn leather is buttoned up and "air-conditioned".

They are high-quality, comfortable boots-but far beyond their expected lifespan. The toes were worn down to the hole, and the lining was torn off a few years ago, but they are still my boots. From denim to diamonds, I wear them all with pride.

I jumped on the tailgate, lifted my legs, and passed through my boots. I thought of all the places they took me to: concerts, churches, fairs, and funerals. They dressed up for the dinner on the remote island and dressed up for the working animals in the barn. I have worn them when I made new friends, and when I said goodbye to my favorite pets.

The streets, cities, and countries that these boots have seen make me want them to speak—because they have witnessed some of the greatest and most destructive moments in my life. However, they never said a word, they just supported me and supported me to move on.

I gently stroked my worn leather boots. The benevolent approach is to retire before the boots lose all their charm and elegance. Nevertheless, it is difficult to say goodbye.

Marilyn Monroe once said: "Give a girl a pair of suitable shoes, and she can conquer the world." Well, these are my shoes. We accomplished a lot of conquests together.

When I lamented my boots sadly, my husband walked to the tailgate and whispered some of the most beautiful English words in my ear: "Let's take you to buy shoes."

It was a busy week, but we managed to squeeze a date to the farm shop between picking melons and drying them.

Walking on the beach is great-but I also like long and romantic walks on the boot aisle. The pungent aroma of new leather and new shoelaces is even better than the most expensive perfumes.

I feel like a farm version of Cinderella, with one boot walking down the aisle and the other boot walking down the next. Some are cute and pinched; some are ugly and comfortable; some are neither; those have royal price tags.

I know that good boots are not cheap, and cheap boots are not good—but if the price tag is much higher, I will buy a pair of boots, one at a time.

After my husband felt that I had tried every pair of boots in the store, I finally found my next pair. I sit quietly on one side, with my new boots on one side and my old boots on the other. My socks still show signs of old leather and seams pressed into my feet. When we walked out of the store, the sadness seemed obvious.

Later that night, my feet were sore from new boots. I long for the familiar dents on old boots.

Brianna Walker is a farmer, mother, and writer in Eastern Oregon. Her Farmer's Fate column runs in Malheur Enterprise.

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