Sara Marberry

Every pair of shoes tells a story.

I bought these Frye Cowboy boots 46 years ago when I was a junior at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. Although I was a Communications major with a minor in English, for some reason I’d decided to take an economics class – likely at the urging of my father, who thought I should learn something about the production, distribution, and consumption of goods and services.

When I got a D on my first econ test, I was horrified. I wasn’t a straight A student, but I had never gotten a D on any test before.

To ease my distress and soothe my bruised ego, I decided to go shopping.

I hopped in my car and drove 10 minutes to Marshall Fields at Old Orchard Mall. Frye boots were in fashion back then, and I’d had my eye on a pair for a while. I can’t remember how much I paid for them, but they weren’t cheap. So much for economics.

Despite my total ineptitude for economics, I didn’t fail the class. Many years later, the boots haven’t failed me either.

And yet, I’ve only worn them a few times since college -- including to a rodeo in Arizona a few years ago, my 45th high school reunion, and more recently on a date. When I put them on, they mold to my feet in familiar folds and curves, like an old friend you haven’t seen for a while who seems just the same.

Now that Western is back in style, I’ll be stepping out in them a little more. But the truth is, they were never really about fashion.

They remind me of a younger version of myself—slightly off course, a little shaken, but resourceful enough to recover in her own way. Not by mastering supply and demand, but by claiming something that felt like hers.

The boots have lasted. And so have I.