After my Dad died several years ago, Mom asked if I wanted some of his things. Including clothes. Some suits. Some nearly new pairs of shoes.

I accepted them.

I had no real plans to wear Dad’s shoes. I wore cowboy boots, sneakers or went barefoot. For a few years, his shoes gathered dust at the bottom of my closet.

Things happen.

I threw out my back. Cowboy boots didn’t help my back. Decided one morning I needed to wear comfortable shoes. Saw Dad’s broken-in Rockports at the bottom of the closet. Put them on. They fit. …

I literally began walking miles in my Dad’s shoes.

The old adage of figuratively walking a mile in someone’s shoes to better understand him didn’t cross my mind. Not at first. And then not often.

He was a blue-collar worker who read every article in two newspapers daily for most of his life. He was a quiet man who spoke his mind; he didn’t dabble in chit-chat but cut to the chase of a situation when necessary. Sometimes, he could do that without a word; just a look could say everything that needed saying.

He had a quiet wisdom. Decades ago, a friend of mine left college, took a job as a janitor and married. I told Dad about it, almost as if my friend’s life was over. Dad said my friend may end up being happier than all of us who would earn our degrees. He said everybody doesn’t fit into the same mold and education can bring good things but it doesn’t necessarily mean happiness.

Dad was right.

So, sometimes, as I was lacing up Dad’s shoes, I would remember these characteristics. Or places his feet had taken him.

He took a gas station job as a teen to buy a car. Once he had the car, he taught himself to drive by practicing alone on empty streets at night.

He met my Mom and stood at the altar as she walked down the aisle.

He marched in the Army, stationed in Korea.

He carried my sister and me when we were small children. He guided us as we grew. He escorted my sister down the aisle.

If snow covered the smaller roads by our house, he walked to the main highway to catch a ride with a co-worker to work.

For years, he mowed the grass. The family house sat on a plateau atop hillsides. To mow the steeper hillsides, he lowered the push mower by a rope up and down, repeatedly, until the grass was mowed. Even in his mid-70s, even the summer before he died.

Much of these lessons were taught before he passed. Before I ever walked my miles in his shoes. Wearing his shoes has given me no better understanding or insight into Dad.

But it has been a comfort wearing them and having something of Dad’s with me. Wearing them has caused me to smile with memories and served as a reminder of his example.

And though Dad’s shoes may fit, I can’t say I fill them. No, I do not fill my father’s shoes. But I try every day, with each and every step.

Dean Poling is a former editor with The Valdosta Daily Times and The Tifton Gazette.