Beatle Boots

He was in fifth grade, a young American kid in a small town on the east coast of Scotland. His father was a Presbyterian minister who had packed up the entire family and moved from the hills of north Georgia to the Scottish Lowlands to study theology at the University of Edinburgh, the educational high church of the Presbyterian faith.

It was quite a move and full of big changes for the kid. For one, he had gone straight from being a third-grader in Georgia to fifth grade in Scotland. Something about Scottish schoolchildren starting school younger and keeping him with his age group. But he was tall for his age and a voracious reader so that helped. He sort of fit in. He definitely tried to.

Every morning he would walk with his father down to the train station, where his dad would catch the Edinburgh train, into the city to theology class. And the kid would go to school and try to keep up with fifth-grade math.

Then he started listening to music. And not just any music, but specifically a band named The Beatles. The Fab Four. John, Paul, George, and Ringo. And though he was only in fifth grade, he knew what he had to do. Let his hair grow out of this American crew cut. And somehow obtain a pair of Beatle boots. Pointy toed, ankle-high slip-ons, black. Just like the Beatles wore in all the pictures.

First, he approached his mother. She was sympathetic in a distracted way, not really understanding the importance of The Beatles, much less their boots. And besides, there was no Beatle boot room in the clothes budget of a theology student with a wife and three children.

The boots seemed unobtainable.

And then one day on the playground a kid he barely knew spoke to him.

“I’ve got a pair of Beatle boots. Brand new but they’re too small. Come over to my house and I’ll give them to you.”

Free Beatle boots. He could barely believe it. His fortunes changed in an instant. And that afternoon he set out walking to the kid’s house to get his boots.

But it was a long way, farther than he had realized, and by the time he finally got there, it was almost dark. He knocked on the door and the kid’s mother opened it, gave him a lookover. He could barely get the words out.

“I’m here for the Beatle boots, ma’am?”

She hesitated, a little confused, and he realized the kid hadn’t told her he would be there to claim the boots. But she invited him inside, sat him down near the fire, offered some tea and cookies. He hadn’t even realized how cold he was, freezing in fact. But the fire began to thaw him out and he was able to explain his journey, his reason for being there, in the winter, at this hour.

She disappeared for a few minutes, came back holding the boots. And they were beautiful, so cool. Exactly like The Beatles wore. He tried them on and they fit perfectly. Or close enough. They made the journey across the ocean, from third to fifth grade, completely worth it.

“You’re the new American child in school aren’t you.” She said, “I’ve heard about you. Isn’t your father attending the University?”

He conceded all that was true.

“And you like The Beatles.” She continued.

He told her that he, in fact, loved The Beatles. That their music had changed his life.

“Well, you’ll have to let your hair grow a wee bit now I suppose.”

She wouldn’t let him walk back home. Loaded him into her little Austin, drove him back across town, and out to his house. It was completely dark by then, and beginning to snow. He clutched his new boots, thanked her again for her kindness and her son’s large feet.

His Mom met him at the door and pulled him into the warm kitchen, where a plate of beans and toast sat waiting on the table. He laid the boots on a chair next to him, admiring the shiny patent leather sheen. Outside the snow was coming down in large puffy flakes, beginning to cover the house and the yard. Tomorrow he had a math test so he finished his dinner, took his new boots, and went upstairs to study, “Ticket to Ride” playing on the radio.