SOME FLY SHOES

When my sister's daughter was four or five she proudly showed me her new shoes and said, "Them kill bugs."

It made me smile, partly at the Okie in her — she is half Okie and half white — and partly because I recognized a kindred spirit: a girl who loves practical shoes. Not ones that you have to strap on or climb into or wedge between your toes. But ones that are comfy, ones that kill bugs.

Not that you couldn't waste a spider with a frou-frou shoe, but honestly, if you have your choice of weapons, are you going to go for the pink satin slingback or the Milano Birkenstock?

Alas, my niece was not a true fellow traveler. Her fascination with practical shoes lasted about as long as my fascination with heterosexuality. I asked her recently whether she remembered showing me her tiny shoes and she said, "Not really," which, coincidentally, is the same answer she gave when I asked whether she remembered her Uncle Steve.

Anyway, I love practical shoes. And these shoes I bought Tuesday are the ultimate in practical. Not only are they extremely comfy, with "Jeep engineered traction," but they come equipped with maps on the soles. At first I thought they were world maps, but they're actually a split map of the Berkshires, which are some so-called "mountains" in Massachusetts. I'm going to the Bay State in October, so these shoes will be extra practical should I get lost.

These shoes came with four shoelaces: two baby-blue ones and two navy ones. I think that was just for show and not for reasons of practicality, so I took two of them out.

Today I put on these shoes and walked all the way to the City Code Inspection Office (I'm putting a deck on my house), then to the bookstore (where I was looking for "Sense and Sensibility" and found "Jane Austen for Dummies") and then to the bank (I need a loan for the deck), and I didn't get a single blister, not even a tiny bump. These shoes were made for walkin'.

They are the Cadillac of footwear.

Then I came home and put them in my closet and proudly surveyed my little collection. I have seven pairs of shoes now, all practical. All black or brown or blue, except for a pair of gray Arizona Birkenstocks that I purchased during a zany, devil-may-care period.

One time I sent Erin and Ben a picture of myself in a pumpkin patch with the late Moses, and Ben told me that Erin cropped out my "big lesbian shoes." Those were her exact words, because she's a model of political correctness. Still, I took offense. My shoes are not big. In fact, they are rather small — size 5s or so — except for these new ones, which I bought a size too large so I could wear big lesbian socks with them while strolling down the Appalachian Trail in the Berkshires.

Anyway, these shoes are so fabulous, and I'm sure all my friends will agree. When I send them pictures from my vacation, they'll probably just crop out the big lesbian — and leave the awesome shoes.