Red Clogs
Snow swirls around as trumpet and saxophone players walk by. It’s Fat Tuesday in Crested Butte, Colorado. The sun has begun to set as jazz music blares down the cobblestone street. People shout down from the upper balconies, cheering on the parade and throwing beads—a shiny rain of purple, green, and gold.
I’m eleven years old. It’s been a long ski day, but I’m not tired: I watch the parade with big, excited green eyes. Over the noise of the street I hear the “Bling bling” of bells behind me. I turn around, my frosted face reflecting in a store window. It’s a shoe store. I love shoes. I look past my reflection, something red catches my eye–a pair of bright red clogs, hand-painted with swirls of rainbow flowers. Oh my gosh those are so cute! I’ve never seen anything like them! I run to the door. “Bling bling!” go the doorbells as I run in–straight to the shoes. I pick them up, tracing the floral swirls with my frozen fingertips. “Bling bling!” goes the door. My mom appears behind me. I turn. “Look Mommy!” She says smoothly, “Cute, Savygirl.” She smiles, “Very cute.” She takes them from me, flips them over, her eyes looking for the price tag. Her smile flattens. Maybe she doesn’t like them. Or maybe they’re too expensive. She sets them back down. That’s okay. I don’t need them. I wish–but it’s okay. The roaring of trombones and the clap of drums fill the store as the door opens again. “Bling bling!” the doorbells chime. Another scarfed, pink-cheeked customer walks in. Mommy grabs my hand, and we head towards the door. I look back at the clogs. I look back at my mom. That’s okay, I don’t need them. They’re just cool to look at. Goodbye clogs. I wish–but it’s okay. We walk out, back into the cold.
We hear the symbol players before we see them. “CRASH CRASH” they come stomping around the corner. Over the noise Sophie yells, “Sav, here!” and passes me a warm cup. My mittened fingers grab it, careful not to spill. Mmmmm, apple cider. Here come the saxophones. A soloist plays a riff, the people cheer, more shiny bead-rain. The strands of beads bounce and settle in colorful piles on the brick street, mingling with the building snow. The cider feels cozy and warm in my hands–its fall-time fragrance wafts into my nose. Mmmm, apple cider. I take a tentative sip. It’s a little too hot. I drink it anyway, the hot liquid trailing heat as it slides down my throat. I swallow, then exhale: “Ahhhhhh.” My toasty breath freezes in the cold air. It’s like I’m a dragon, breathing a little puff of smoke. “Ahhhhhhh,” I exhale again. Kena watches me, and giggles. I sip again. Suddenly the symbols are back with a “CRASH CRASH!” OW! I burn my tongue; I drank too fast. I stick my tongue out, hoping the frigid air will help to cool it. I pass the white paper cup to Kena, steam rising from the lid. She sips, and breathes out “Ahhhhhh.” She giggles again. The symbol players pass by, and my mind wanders back to the clogs. I wish–but it’s okay. I’m lucky just to be here, to be on a ski trip with my family. I’m so lucky already. I don’t need a present–I don’t need them. As my thoughts form, the clogs walk out of my mind. I focus back on the parade. Dozens of pairs of matching black boots march by in a synchronized “stomp, stomp, stomp;” keeping tempo to the flowing melodies of the passing clarinets.
It seems to be the parade’s finale. The band has a last blast of enthusiasm–their playing is rich, loud, and spirited. There’s the low “bub bub buubbb” of the tuba player, the singing “da da da daaaah” of more saxophones, and the final swinging “BA BAHH” of trumpets. The jazz melody mixes with the drunken cheers of onlookers. More beads fall from the balconies: a final flurry. The sun is setting–a final hurrah of noise and celebration before the calm and dark of night. The last rays of dark orange and pink magnify the scene: the musicians swinging their instruments back and forth, my sisters and I clapping our hands, the song building, the balcony members screaming, more snow and beads falling. “CRASH CRASH” go the symbols; a final build, a final note! The crowd cheers, and more beads fly down from above–reflecting in the sun’s last rays.
The magenta sky turns violet, the pandemonium quiets. The applause peters out, the musicians stomp down the street and turn the corner, out of sight. The parade’s over. Time to go home. Suddenly, there’s the familiar “Bling bling!” of the store door bells. I turn around. It’s my mom. She closes the door behind her, just as the storekeeper turns its hanging sign to “CLOSED.” She looks at me. She’s smiling. She looks at her hands– in them are the clogs, the glorious red floral clogs. My green eyes light up. I don’t know what to say! I don’t deserve them. They’re so cool! I run to her. My arms wrap around her. She wraps around me. I don’t know what to say! I close my eyes, my happy face buried in the warmth of her sweater. I smile. I’m so lucky.
(picture mine)
Savy Janssen 