Grant Stone Diesel Boot

These boots have been with me on the last leg of my transition from a city living free spirit to a level headed suburban dad. After time in New York, L.A., and Boston, my wife and I closed on a house in our old New England hometown this fall. As a result, I shook in these boots as we handed over our life’s savings at closing, I shivered in them as I shoveled my new driveway this winter and I cursed in them as I assembled more IKEA furniture than they have in Sweden. They have been with me for weekly trips to the town landfill, my four daily walks with our sweet hound dog and to a million family parties because my in-laws insist on celebrating adult birthdays even as the family grows beyond a point where it is practical.   As a father to a three-year-old, these boots have seen me through soccer practices in muddy New England fields, some pretty lame snowball fights and a multitude of impressively messy potty-training accidents. With toddlers, as with boots, progress isn’t always in a straight line and one thing I can say for sure: my son might be coddled, but these boots have not been babied. They have not been brushed as much as I’d have liked nor have they always seen shoe trees when not in use. They lost a speed hook early in the competition that I haven’t fixed yet and we broke a lace a couple of months back, which I did manage to replace. These boots have seen Bluey, Blippi and Big Bird every. single. day.   These boots, much like the suburban dad who wore them have been worked hard, tested under hazardous conditions, and pampering them hasn’t always been prioritized. But they’ve gotten what they needed to survive, they witnessed worlds of love and they are better for it. Ladies and gentlemen, I humbly submit for your consideration, these boots.