Fill Your Boots

For all the power of the internet, it certainly has its limitations. I recently found myself searching for the etymology of the expression Fill Your Boots, with less than stellar results. This search arose from a recent conversation with my dad. Since this didn’t follow a normal pattern of questioning for him, I leaned in a little closer than normal, eager to access a bit of paternal wisdom.

“Back in the day”, my dad began, “coal miners were paid at the end of each work day, like most labourers”. Wow, coal miners, ok.

He continued: “During a time of hardship – for the mine’s owners, not the miners, who literally lived a life full of hardship – there came a day when the mine owners couldn’t pay everyone. So, they told them to ‘fill their boots’ with coal; that way that they could at least keep their families warm that night”.

I have always been fascinated by what life was like for those who came before us, in all eras and walks of life. It’s likely what led me to study history. Dad’s idiom got my mind working – because this particular conversation took place during a beautiful day on a golf course. Having the luxury of a day off, and the money in pocket to pay for the privilege, to spend it chasing a tiny ball around acres of grass until it finds its way into a hole in the ground is a stark contrast to going home after a hard day spent underground digging for coal in horrible conditions. I get to change out of golf spikes and into comfortable shoes. The coal miner had nothing to show for a day other than walking home barefoot carrying a pair of coal-filled boots. That hit home. The gratitude I was already feeling for that day became quite profound.

Weeks passed, and my mind kept imagining that life and comparing it to my own: Day after day spent below ground, no light to mark the passage of time, breathing all that coal dust. No labour laws, no union mandated breaks, digging for ten, twelve hours alongside elders and children alike. At the end of each day filled with the interminable jarring work of digging and picking into an unyielding coal face, off come the boots. Fill them with black coal, sling them weighted over a shoulder and trudge home empty pocketed, empty stomached and barefoot across the frozen ground to a cramped and squalid house in desperate need of heat.

I should hit pause for a moment and add a bit of context. This fall, we added a wood stove to the living room. Who doesn’t love a fire while a storm rages outside? But it’s added a chore to my weekly (sometimes daily) list: chopping wood and kindling. And as our wet, nasty winter has developed, I’ve re-learned a few lessons. First - nothing makes a house feel like a home more than a wood fire. Second - bucking, chopping, hauling, and stacking wood is both hard work and very satisfying provided I don’t have to do it all day, one day after another. And wood is orders of magnitude more pleasant to deal with than coal.

The primal enjoyment of fire has made me feel more in touch with the lives of those who used to rely on it to keep them alive and comfortable. The responsibility of fire keeping and preparation has renewed my appreciation for those who labour at tasks such as those required to deliver firewood to warm my living room.

And because I’ve been in a reflective mood lately – December will do that to a person – this memorable idiom and our new wood stove have been good reminders about gratitude and good fortune. Like every year for the past few decades, my favourite memories include some incredible experiences on bikes. What’s leaving a lasting impression, however, are some of the things bikes are teaching me.

Mountain biking forms the basis for my work. This can mean long hours and uncomfortable moments, but it all stems from a love of bikes. Fundamentally, to work in a business devoted to play makes me fortunate. Anytime I feel fortunate, my thoughts eventually extend to my parents. However, other than the occasional travel story, mountain biking isn’t something I share with them. Until this year, when I took my dad mountain biking for the first time.

It happened on a whim, but I set my dad up on an ebike and took him to some mellow trails in a beautiful stretch of forest marked by massive Douglas Firs and moss-covered stumps. He’s a confident and experienced cyclist but had never really ridden trails. He was familiar with dropper posts but had never used one. We hit the trails, and he did great! I was terrified he’d take a spill but comforted by the fact that he feels at home on two wheels and understands how to handle momentum.

We both had a blast, but my enjoyment of the ride itself was secondary to the joy I felt seeing him experience something new and understand a bit more about why I love it so much. My dad taught me to ski, introduced me to golf, spent years returning endless cross court forehands. Finally, I got the chance to introduce him to something new.

Dad and I have shared more hours and experiences together under the guise of sport than anything else. It is a big part of how we communicate, and how he has passed many pieces of wisdom down to me. Not by pulling me aside and explaining why I need to know something, or what makes it important, but by showing me through his actions and example why things like sportsmanship, hard work, and dedication help lead to a better life.

As I reflected on dad’s reference to coal miners, I found myself traipsing around online, looking up ‘fill your boots’. Not because I didn’t believe his take, but maybe because I sought added perspective. What I found were a multitude of additional meanings, from various eras and places. Many were nautical in origin, most seemed plausible. One of them referenced coal miners:

English coal miners wore hobnailed boots which were slippery on cobblestone streets, so they carried them home after work so they wouldn’t slip. This allowed them to “fill their boots” with coal which would be just enough to warm a modest family home for one day.

I think I’ll stick with dad’s definition. I can stop searching for meaning now, for my boots are already full.