The shoes appeared without warning on the fourth day of vacation.

I found them tucked inside a cardboard box that someone had placed on our bed at my inlaws’ cottage ¬ an unexpected gift smelling of new rubber and finely crafted leather.

My stomach lurched and the hair on the back of my neck stood straight for reasons that had yet to be revealed.

Before long I would learn that the shoes were an omen of things to come.

Work things.

Black as tar with toes made of steel, they were of a variety of footwear favored by people who understand the difference between a Robertson screwdriver and a pipe wrench, people who swing hammers with authority and say things like, “Pass me that axle” or, “Your engine is heating up because your radiator is empty. It needs coolant. Coolant is the green stuff.”

Their soles were reinforced slabs thick enough to withstand broken glass, rusty nails and possibly even long-forgotten landmines from a little known skirmish involving the normally peace-loving residents of Black Fly Township.

Soon I would learn the shoes were a present from my father-in-law, Mike, who not only knows the difference between a screwdriver and a pipe wrench, but can even point me to our station wagon’s radiator, which, as I recently learned, must have a constant supply of coolant to run efficiently.

Also the engine will melt without it.    

Mike was away for his job, but was to join us at the cottage in three days, at which time we would begin removing a side wall to make way for a small addition, and by removing a side wall I mean tearing away 50-year-old pine boards one stubborn strip at a time with crowbars, hammers and, once those failed, our fingernails.

How the shoes made their way to the cottage in advance of Mike’s arrival is unknown, though word of a courier van in the neighbouring village suggested they were delivered by priority post, possibly aided by a seaplane.

Days passed and the shoes were set aside and forgotten as our family enjoyed carefree time at the lake.

Friday arrived and with it blue skies and a baking sun that left us frolicking happily in the shallows.

Work was the furthest thing from my mind.

Then, in the early afternoon, a low rumble rippled across the bay.

Birds grew silent and squirrels took to the trees.

In the distance, a child wept.

I looked over my shoulder toward the road, which seemed to shake with the promise of incoming traffic.

Mike traffic.

As the sound grew closer, an elderly man clothed in finely woven robes and ceremonial face paint appeared suddenly at my side.

“Something is coming,” he warned in a grave tone, then disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

His voice trailed off, but not before reminding me to “Beware the shoes and the work that will follow by wearing them.”

 The moral of this story – almost all of which is roughly true or thereabouts – is, never accept gifts from strangers or close relatives.

They may ask you to hand them a pipe wrench.