Galoshes. What are they?
They are rubber boots worn over one’s shoes. Most people know this. But do the good citizens of Moose County truly appreciate galoshes? One doubts it. One doubts it very much.
I was reflecting on this topic yesterday evening while seated in my favorite leather chair in the converted apple barn I call home, which the Klingenschoen Fund maintains at what I consider an outrageous expense for property taxes alone — though my accountant assures me the arrangement is perfectly standard and that the barn qualifies as both a residence and a “cultural preservation site,” which seems reasonable. Koko was perched on the dictionary stand, staring at page 487 with an intensity that can only be described as scholarly. Yum Yum had draped herself across my galoshes by the door. Was she guarding them? Was she making a statement about waterproof footwear? One does not dismiss these things lightly.
My moustache began to tingle. It often does when something significant is afoot, and I have learned to trust it more than most journalists trust their sources. The tingling suggested galoshes were worth writing about this week. Who am I to argue with a moustache?
Galoshes keep feet dry. This is important. Moose County receives considerable precipitation. Why do so few residents own galoshes? Is it stubbornness? Is it ignorance? Is it the same reckless spirit that has led to fourteen arsons, nine murders, and a string of art thefts in our quiet community of three thousand souls over the past several years — a statistical anomaly no one seems eager to discuss, least of all the police chief, who owes me several favors?
I myself own one pair of galoshes. They were expensive. I would have preferred them complimentary, as I did once receive a free pair of snowshoes from a merchant who later died under mysterious circumstances shortly after I interviewed him for this very column. These things happen in Pickax with a regularity I find neither alarming nor, frankly, my responsibility.
Koko knocked a book off the shelf this morning. It was titled *Puddle-Proof: A History of Rubber Footwear*. Coincidence? Koko does not deal in coincidence. He deals in genius. Meanwhile, I noticed a squirrel on the porch eating birdseed I had not offered him. The freeloading in this county is extraordinary — unless one is the freeloader, in which case it is called “community goodwill.”
Galoshes.
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