When was the last time you considered a galosh? Well, I have a good one for you. I’ll never again dismiss this strange looking rubbery thingy one might think was solely created for dandies who can’t take on a puddle or some mud like a man. Oh no, not me. I recently had a chance encounter with a glorious galosh.
What a fabulous way to start a day: with a robust hour walk in my neighborhood park on a crisp, cool winter morning, the sky’s blue and I’m feelin’ good. Until the entire sole of my left Nike hiking boot just peels all the way back and disengages from my boot, leaving me limping and cursing and wondering how on earth I was going to make the mile walk home.
My initial reaction was to prompt myself to act like a survivalist, thinking: “I can handle this, be creative! Tie up the boot sole with some..(looking around the park surroundings) — vine, or, or,…snow?” as I frantically searched my pockets for that pice of string or elastic I always seem to find floating around when I don’t need it.
Instead, I started pathetically limping and inching my way toward the main entrance of the park, scheming what I’d do when I made it to the Pond House Café, the park jewel, about 200 yards in, where I would ask for some duct tape or string.
And there, in the snow bank, like manna from heaven, I noticed something black and rubbery, whose shape I vaguely recognized as that of a good old fashioned galosh. I looked at it in disbelief. I had to restrain myself from not looking heavenward. A nifty, waterproof, shoe-covering device, available, just for me!? Just now? Really? And the amazing thing was, it fit, although it was the wrong foot. This is no small feat (read feet if you must) as I also go by the endearing, lady like name of Bigfoot (thanks dad).
I couldn’t help but laugh out loud as I gingerly, sort of, clunked my way home with my broken hiking boot safely nestled into the glorious galosh. Later that night over dinner, telling my sons about the importance of never underestimating the value of the chance encounters life presents you with – even with inanimate objects – my youngest son blurts out: “Wait, where did you find the galosh? I put it there the other day when I was sledding with my friends. I saw something black sticking up in the snow, and I pulled it out, and left it on the top of the snow pile in case somebody was looking for it.”
Indeed, somebody was looking for it; or perhaps it was looking for somebody. And it turned out to be me, this time. The lost object my son randomly had found one week before me, touched and thought about, became the glorious galosh that saved my walk, and made me smile. Twice.
Pass it on, they say.
Way, I say.