Props to your nasty feet.

Another guest post by Dan Kiessling:

A recent post on Chelsea’s wall by Sara Foskey concerning old worn out flip-flops and Chelsea’s impression on a dirt trail of course prompted memories of Chelsea’s feet.  For some reason, perhaps the flip-flops, she maintained the dirtiest feet that I have ever seen on a woman.  Several instances other than just cleaning out the tub or shower came to mind.

The first and most embarrassing time was years ago at the Savannah Boat show.  As the family made its way down to the in-water area of the show we began seeing very impressive new cruisers, and off-shore vessels.  All were gleaming in the sun and expectant brokers standing by for showing.  It is customary to take your shoes off prior to boarding these types of boats in order to keep the boats clean and not to scuff up the fiberglass.  At the first boat we kicked off our shoes and began to board.  The broker looked down at Chelsea’s feet and we all were so embarrassed by her caked on dirt we picked up our shoes and headed on down the dock to find a hose.  She was able to scrub most of the dirt off, but we did not go back to that particular boat. 

She developed a habit of kicking off whatever her footwear was and placing her feet up on the dash board of my truck, or whatever car she was being driven around in.  Dirty footprints above the glove box were a recurring problem in all of the family’s vehicles.  Armor All did nothing to protect from her feet.

One of my routines was to give her a “hug-up” in the mornings and a “hug-down” with a foot check at night.  Primarily it was to give the last tickle of the day to her toes but occasionally I would have to send her back to the tub to clean her feet.  Somewhere along the line, she began going to bed later than me so the “hug down” and foot checks ceased, but I was still able to get the infrequent “hug ups” .

A couple of years ago, Chelsea and I went to the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival a three day event full of music of every kind imaginable and some that are not.  The venue was New Orleans Fairgrounds Horse Race Track a beloved spot of mine that assisted me in paying my way through college.  It had rained the night before but sunny the first morning.  Walking a mile from parking the car to the Fairgrounds Chelsea of course noticed the Louisiana ladies attire, laughing at the numerous rubber boots.  Everywhere she looked she would point out how stupid that flowered or stripped boot looked with those shorts, skirts or jeans.  She questioned why anyone would ever wear a pair of polka-dot boots.  We finally made it in and one quick circuit around the venue familiarizing ourselves with where the food, beverages, and different music sections were located.

She headed straight for the rap- hopping area and I to the blues tent where I told her she could find me throughout the day.  Whether by design or just bad luck the area she was in was lower in elevation than the rest of the infield and had accumulated the most rain.  That, along with 20,000 people walking, jumping, or dancing around had enhanced the mud factor tremendously.  Sure enough at the end of the day she came strolling around with her sandals on her shoulder and gooey black from her knees down and a smile on her face.  There were no handy hoses to wash it off but she did the best she could on the way back to the car. 

It became evident, once we were in the car that, it was not entirely mud caked around her feet.  After all, the Fairgrounds is a horse track.  We spent three hours shopping that night for a pair of flowered rubber boots for her.  She had joined the fashion set of the Jazz Fest. 

Wearing her boots for the next two days she began spending more and more time with me in the Blues Tent.  Originally, I would ask her to come and hold my seat while I refreshed my Abita beer or got rid of the last ones.  Whenever I would return she had managed to move up a few rows and held better seats until we eventually were front row.  That is when Dr. John made his appearance and she became hooked for the rest of the day on Blues.


As we sat together between acts I exacted a promise from her, for the costs of the boots and probably for breakfast at Brennan’s (her favorite N.O. eating establishment).  I made her promise that when I was old and feeble that she would wheel me in to that tent so I could listen to the Blues for a day with her again.  She won’t make good on all of that promise now, but I expect that if someone else wheels me in,  she will be there with me wearing those boots.