I spent a good part of the day yesterday taking inventory of my footwear wardrobe. (I know, I know. I should get a life. Humor me, if you will.) It didn’t take me long to realize that I own a heckuva lot of shoes. They stack up as follows:

Three pairs of hunting boots (including one kangaroo hide pair I’m certain cost more than a whole, live kangaroo), three pairs of felt-sole wading shoes plus one pair of cleat-soles in which I am always slipping and falling, two pairs of kayak/canoe water shoes, an equal number of canvas slip-ons, a pair of overpriced sneakers, a pair of hikers, a pair of walking shoes, and some of those slick-bottomed, pointy-toed, Sunday-go-to-meetin’ jobs.

Go ahead. Add it up. The math is downright depressing.

Thinking on it, and bemoaning my podiatric inventory, I’m taken back to the days of my youth. Ah, such simple times, including the standard foot covering of that bygone era.

As a lad, it was traditional for me to receive but one new pair of shoes each year. They arrived every spring, courtesy of the Easter Bunny. They were black, ankle-high, rubber-soled, canvas models with “U.S. Keds” embossed and glued prominently on the uppers. Though far from pretty, they were absolutely wonderful; the ultimate shoe for dress, casual, and utilitarian purposes.

For a young outdoorsman, these “tennie pumps” were ideal. They reliably carried me to the creek, across the creek, and up or down the creek, wet or dry. They climbed trees, scaled embankments, stalked squirrels and rabbits, and flew like the wind before swarms of angry hornets and yellow jackets (not to mention Old Man Luther Ferguson, who was decidedly unfond of juvenile trespassers).

Those shoes braved each and every natural and manmade surface with which they came into contact: gravel, asphalt, mud, fresh cow patties. A mere two days out of the box, they looked and smelled awful, pretty much taking on the identity of their young owner. Yep, by golly, Keds had character.

Though I was a rapidly growing boy and limited to but one pair of tennie pumps a year, I never got cramped or stunted feet inside a pair of Keds. In due time, my lower digits simply punched their way through the canvas and-rubber toe guards, actually giving the shoes more traction than they originally supplied, particularly where tree-climbing and mud-slogging were concerned.

A boy could never, but never, get lost while wearing U.S. Keds. The distinct odor of a well-worn pair could linger in the air for hours on end and was easily trailed for three or four miles before dissipating.

When fishing, I could dangle my feet in the creek and rapidly attract every catfish within a hundred yards, though I’m certain the resulting pollution had to be detrimental to the health and well being of more fastidious species like bluegills and largemouth bass. The smell was also known to occasionally asphyxiate certain birds, small mammals, mothers, and the odd schoolteacher or two, but, hey, there had to be a tradeoff somewhere.

It was always with great reluctance that I parted with my old Keds every Easter. It was very much like peeling off a living, if somewhat putrid, layer of skin. They were a part of me. Literally.

Trading in the old for the new also posed a disposal problem. Bury them, and all vegetation ceased to grow around the “grave.” Sanitation workers refused to haul them away, claiming they gave the garbage truck a bad odor. Generally, one simply tossed them into a back closet and didn’t open the door again until the Keds finished mummifying.

Nearly 50 years after the fact, I don’t really miss those old Keds too much. Bigtime outdoor writers and sportsmen, after all, have a certain image to uphold. On the other hand, if you should happen to run across a pair and find yourself in a generous mood, I wear size 11 ½.

And it’s “Keds,” y’all. K-E-D-S.

(Email Bob Kornegay at cletus@windstream.net)