Silver Boots

That Little Voice 

Going once, going twice, SOLD.

Those words are ringing in my ear after an evening of wine, champagne, heavy snacks, desserts, meandering and gawking at 100 plus items to be auctioned off, then watching paddles raised, lowered, nods given, sipping more wine, and finally hauling off treasures I will stare at in the morning and wonder why they are in my house.

What possessed me to think someone’s shiny, silver, high heeled boots in a size 8 would be something I must have, when I haven’t worn high heels in 30 years and my shoe size is 9. No 82-year-old woman would dare stride along cobblestone streets in 2-inch heels, and certainly not the 4-inch spikes supporting these boots.

Someone give me a clue what I am going to do with dangling pierced earrings I apparently added to my credit card at the end of the evening? I don’t have those little holes punched into my droopy earlobes to accommodate the wearing of such things.

Good causes will benefit from this annual ‘fun raising,’ and perhaps I can give the boots along with lovely earrings to someone for Christmas. Or I can put them in the bottom of a drawer and remember to bring them back to next year’s auction so someone else will wonder why they ended up with them the morning after a wine-induced evening of competitive outbidding behavior.

They might be my contribution to the annual Christmas ‘elephant’ gift sharing where people bring things they don’t want and hope someone else will take your gift home. Then you pray you won’t end up with something worse than what you brought.

It is amazing to rummage through items given away when donations are requested for auctions and even for disaster relief. Take for instance during the Katrina hurricane years ago.

I volunteered in Houston at the relief center for New Orleans residents pouring out of that city and into Texas cities immediately following the disastrous flooding. I was assigned to go through shoes left from concerned Houstonians for those refugees. I spent several days sorting children’s, men’s and women’s footwear and if possible, by size for people flowing through the massive convention center looking for clothes, bath items, bedding, and answers for their overwhelming fear and sadness.

Some of the shoes were clean, barely used, and appeared comfortable. Then, there were pairs looking like the previous owners had worn them to a cattle auction and forgot to wipe them off after stomping through the cow lot.

Oh, now I remember why I got those silver boots. They were just like a pair I found in the pile of women’s shoes left for hurricane survivors. Of course, they were perfect for someone who had spent the night barefooted and, in their nightgown, clinging to their roof shingles praying someone would come save them from drowning.

I guess the donor thought if rising waters happened again, drowning in silver boots was better than not having any shoes at all.