Bad Luck Boots: A Memoir

By Nicci Boots

A girl is born into a family of cowboys, with a name that seems to determine her destiny. But she’s not having it. Her red hair and rambunctious personality get her in plenty of trouble along the way, but her vigilant heart and mind keep her moving forward. Then a seemingly unending string of tragedies knock her and her family back, for several consecutive years. Injury, loss and illness do their worst, but the broken and battered girl refuses to give up on her hopes and dreams. Her inspiring fight for survival is flimsy at times, and ferocious at others, but her tenacity, and ability to keep smiling, remain remarkable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9781304513236

Book preview

A Memoir

By Nicci Boots

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2024 by Nocona Kay Boots

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-30451-323-6

CONTENTS

Part One: The Grow-Up

Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys (Willie Nelson & Waylon Jennings)

Little Wing (Jimi Hendrix)

Wild Child (The Doors)

Sweet Jane (The Velvet Underground)

Tha Crossroads (Bone Thugs-N-Harmony)

Can’t You Hear Me Knocking (The Rolling Stones)

The Only Time (Nine Inch Nails)

Seasons (Chris Cornell)

Heart-Shaped Box (Nirvana)

Part Two: Spiraling

Vasoline (Stone Temple Pilots)

Scarlet Begonias (Sublime)

What Is and What Should Never Be (Led Zeppelin)

Amarillo by Morning(George Strait)

Only the Good Die Young (Billy Joel)

Stop! (Jane’s Addiction)

He Rides the Wild Horses (Chris Ledoux)

Part Three: Hey Hey, What Can I Do?

Pass That Dutch (Missy Elliott)

Ocean Breathes Salty (Modest Mouse)

Get It While You Can (Janis Joplin)

My Sunshine (Ty Segall)

Oh My Darling Don’t Cry (Run The Jewels)

PREFACE

Luck is a helluva thing. It’s really nothing more than a concept, used to try and give reason to why something has happened. Deciding whether someone’s luck is good or bad is uniquely determined by whoever’s contemplating the history of the person in question.

Well, me and my immediate family were once served almost nothing but bad luck, for several consecutive years. I’m not saying my family was the unluckiest on the planet or anything, but it sure felt like it. Our recovery from all that happened, during that time period, is still a work in progress.

In fact, part of my healing came through writing this book. It helped to fully unpack all the negative bullshit that coincided with what I’ve been through. Putting my story to paper did a fine job of reminding me of the times I experienced good luck, instead of bad. How sometimes that which is considered unlucky might actually be a wake-up call, and will enhance your life for the better.

A story of nothing but pain and sadness was the last thing I wanted to share with you, as I thank the opposite of those emotions, namely positivity and optimism, for seeing me through all the trauma that smashed its way into the Boots family. So I’ve filled this memoir with the stories that shaped me as a wee one, and details that best explain the full picture that is my life.

You’ll also learn I made some real questionable decisions as a kid, but that was the thing. I didn’t know any better back then! Thankfully I’ve learned, and grown, a whole helluva lot from those dumb mistakes, and couldn’t be happier I’m not making them anymore.

With that in mind, I’ve changed the names of several people in my story. I didn’t want to broadcast their involvement with my wild times, and make them guilty by association. Besides that, I guarantee the following is completely accurate. Hard to believe at times, but so is life.

And take note of all the songs, albums and artists included in my story, because music heavily shapes who I am. I thank every artist mentioned for helping to keep me alive during the darkest moments of my existence.

This memoir is for my grandmothers,

both of them warriors in their own way,

and who inherently taught me how to survive anything.

PART ONE

The Grow-Up

Chapter 1

Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies

Grow Up To Be Cowboys

As I was slowly lowered down into the chute, and onto the back of a considerably large, black-haired calf, panic seized my 5-year-old brain.

Why in the world was I following through on this ridiculous, potentially paralyzing and/or life-ending challenge?

Who cares if my beloved older brother was the reason I was doing it. Tommy might not even notice if I bailed! He had enough on his plate to worry about, anyway –  he was signed up to compete in something like five events. One of them being the cow riding, the more grown-up version of the idiocy I was about to subject myself to.

So how had Tommy convinced me to enter the Thedford Junior Rodeo’s calf riding competition? Well, he’d been lurking near the entry table while I got myself registered for barrel racing and pole bending, and it didn’t take much from Tommy to get me outside my comfort zone. Even if it meant riding a calf for the first time in my life.

I bet you’re the only girl here who could do it! he said, egging me on. And it’ll be real easy, ya just gotta hug him tight, and before ya know it, the eight seconds’ll be up.

Eight seconds, or how long a rodeo contestant must remain strapped to the back of a bucking animal in events such as bull riding, bareback riding or calf riding, sounded easy as pie at the moment.

It would surely be a super-fast, wham-bam, thank you ma’am, kind of experience, and heck – maybe I’d do so well I’d win a prize! I’d be the talk of the rodeo, and other junior cowgirls and cowboys would fear and worship me.

So of course I accepted my brother’s dare.

Sure! Why not? I’ll probably become the best girl calf rider this town’s ever seen!

Well, this decision came around 7 a.m., and I wouldn’t be placed on top of the calf for another two hours, so I spent the morning hyping myself up with visions of the trophy I’d soon be winning.

All confidence evaporated the second I saw the size of the animal in the chute.

Terror overtook me, and the words to call it off were almost out of my mouth, but then I heard Tommy shout my nickname.

Get ‘em, Foof! Show that calf who’s boss!

Tommy, commonly known by his own nickname, Stub, was one of many who chose to refer to me as Foof, instead of my real name. It was an alias I picked up at a super young age, in reference to the children’s song Little Bunny Foo Foo, and I proudly carry it to this day.

My brother’s shout of encouragement confirmed there was no backing out now. It meant Tommy was watching, and so were my parents. Dad was even in the arena, standing about 25 feet away, serving as a judge with his friend, Tom. The pair were judging all of the junior roughstock events, and I knew without asking Dad wouldn’t do me any favors when scoring my ride.

So I let them strap me onto the calf and gave the man behind the gate a head nod, signifying I was ready to go. He nodded back, swung open the gate and the animal was given a slight push to get him going.

The calf jerked from the touch, leapt out of the chute, flying us upwards of at least a mile into the air. As the calf’s hooves came skidding down into the dirt, I lost hold and went flying off, landing face first.

Once the animal realized he was free of me, he redirected course and came charging my way, defiantly stomping down on my back and dragging his pointy hoof before he happily skipped away.

Pain roared through my body and I staggered to get up, bawling uncontrollably.

Immediately Judge Tom was by my side, consoling me, then Dad came marching up.

Stop your crying and get your ass to the pick-up!

Oh now, Rich, Tom said. Take it easy on her.

I knew better. If Rich Boots told you to jump, you better be mid-jump before the request came out of his mouth.

So I hobbled my way to the truck, gingerly climbed into the back of the Super Cab, and found a pillow to sob into. I was miserable for the rest of the day.

Mom let me drop out of the other events I’d signed up to compete in, and Tommy went on to win the cow riding that afternoon!

Never again did I participate in a rodeo. I held great disdain for the sport for most of my childhood.

Dad, a Nebraska state bull riding champion in the sixties, never seemed too pleased about my distaste for rodeo. In return, I gave him plenty more to worry about in the ensuing years.

*****

My father, now a retired rancher, member of the Nebraska Sandhills Cowboy Hall of Fame and seventh in a line of Bootses, has always had a great sense of humor.

Rich Boots spent his life as a cowboy and cattleman, so he elected to name both his first- and last-born children after brands of the footwear most of his friends and colleagues wore every day.

This meant my oldest brother got the name Tony, middle name Lama, and I was honored with the first name Nocona (pronounced NUH-KO-NUH), in homage to the Nocona Boot Company based in Nocona, Texas.

Founded in 1887, Nocona named itself after the English surname of a local Comanche Quahadi war chief. Puhtocnocony, known by white settlers as Peta Nocona, had married captive Cynthia Parker following her adoption into his tribe. Their son, Quanah Parker, was eventually chosen by the United States government to act as principal chief of the Comanche Nation. In 1911 he passed away, and was declared the last Chief of the Comanche.

In 1925 Enid Justin established her Nocona Boot Company in the town, then the company merged with Justin Industries in 1981, originally founded by Enid’s father. The company is now run as Justin Brands and produces Justin Boots, which is the same name as my older cousin. And Tony Lama Boots was purchased by Justin Industries in 1990, so it’s essentially a family brand. Both in Texas, and Nebraska!

By itself, Nicci (NICK-EE, not NEECHEE) Boots is a very solid name, and thanks goes out to my sister, Tonya, who nicknamed me first. But Nocona Kay Boots? Almost too good to be true.

I share my middle name with my beloved Aunt Ellen, my sweet cousin Kendra, and her adorable daughter, Kassidy. As for my family’s great surname? Well, that’s another cool story.

My late grandmother Esther conducted an incredible amount of genealogical research on the Boots family with Aunt Ellen, from which I can trace back seven generations, to the first Boots that moved to America.

His name was Hans Adam Stieffell, and he was born to a family of bootmakers in Germany, around 1732. The spelling of his last name differs throughout public record, but Stieffell was the way it appeared on Hans’ will. In German, Stiefel translates to ‘boots,’ so when Hans immigrated to America around 1767, he used the English translation for his new last name.

After initially settling in Virginia, members of the Boots family migrated across America, and found their home at the edge of the Midwest: Nebraska. With a last name like Boots, it seems almost fitting the majority of them became ranchers and cowboys.

Dad isn’t even the only family member who’s been inducted into the Nebraska Sandhills Cowboy Hall of Fame – there’s also my grandfather Gerald, and my brother Tommy. Grandpa earned his spot by helping to establish the Hyannis Old Timers Rodeo in 1974, an event created to get retired cowboys back in action for a weekend.

Tommy, nominated after he passed away in 2001, was recognized for his work as an amateur cowboy, awards he won participating in ranch rodeos and his selection to be a pickup man for the Pro Rodeo Cowboys Association (PRCA). Sadly my brother died not long after receiving his card to become a pickup man, so he never got a chance to officially work for the PRCA. All of his previous dedication to ranching and rodeo ensured his eventual induction into the hall, however.

We’ll find our way back to the heartbreaking story of Tommy’s passing, but for now just know he was an incredible human being, and I would give anything to have him back with us.

*****

Dad met my gorgeous mama, then Lucie Jones, after she moved to finish high school near his hometown. Mom had spent most of her life on the move, with a father who worked as a ranch hand, and a mother who generally became the ranch house cook, wherever they landed.

Her mother, Liesselotte Rupert Jones, had been born and raised in Warsaw, Poland, at one of the worst times to live in that part of the world. One afternoon, at the beginning of WWII, Liesselotte attended a movie with her brother but the theater was seized by Nazi troops, in part of their sweep of Poland.

Upon capture, Grandma Lea was thankfully not exposed to the horrors so many other unfortunate humans were subject to at that time. Instead she was forced to serve as a cook and maid for various Nazi leader’s wives. Debilitating work, for sure, but nowhere near as ghastly an experience as that of the millions who perished in the death camps.

At the end of the war, over a million American soldiers remained stationed throughout Europe, and this was how my beautiful grandmother met my Nebraska-born grandfather, Andrew Jones.

Their love blossomed immediately. Liesselotte and Andrew got married in Germany and their daughter Luciana arrived in 1947. When Grandpa came back to America with his new family, my mother’s name was changed to Lucie Ann.

Over the next 17 years my mother and her parents lived throughout the Midwest and Southwest, including New Mexico, Wyoming, Colorado and South Dakota. Mom attended a whopping 10 different schools before landing in Hyannis, Nebr. (population 300 or so), for her senior year of high school.

Dad graduated high school in Hyannis a few years prior, and following a four-week stint at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, returned to work on ranches outside his hometown, and participate in rodeos to make extra money.

He’d been raised by a pair of hard-working parents, Gerald and Esther, whose main source of income was cattle ranching. Times were definitely tough for their family of six over the years, but it instilled an ironclad work ethic in my father. One he would happily drill into his own children, once they were old enough to help him with his own ranch work.

By the time Lucie arrived in Hyannis, Rich was juggling his spare time between winning bull riding competitions, and wooing the ladies. In 1964 he became the first man to ride the legendary bull Tar Baby, and he won the Nebraska State Rodeo Association (NSRA) bull riding championship that same year.

Then a friend set him and Mom up on a blind date, and sparks flew. They were engaged to be married soon after, and in October 1965, Lucie Ann Jones married Richard Eugene Boots, and the rest is most certainly history.

On their very short honeymoon Mom got pregnant with their first child, and the adorably freckled child that popped out in 1966 was Tony Lama.

The new trio of Bootses first lived 30 or so miles north of Ashby (pop. 80), where Dad had been working for the Becker ranch since the age of 16. The relationship that grew between the two families on that ranch remains a tight one today.

It helped there was a very close age difference between the Boots children, and those of Pete and Lassie Becker. Tinka, Trudy, Tracey and Becky were all fast friends with Tony and my other siblings, Tonya Lee and Thomas (Tommy) Andrew, who joined the bunch in 1969 and 1972, respectively.

As a child, Tommy was nicknamed by Dad as Little Stubby Short Stroke because he was just as short as everyone else in our immediate family. It quickly got shortened to Stub, and stuck with him after he grew to be more than a foot taller than the rest of us.

We’d joke that Mama Lucie must’ve conceived of my brother in an affair with the mailman, but one look at Dad in high school shoots that theory down. Him and Tommy were practically twins at that age.

At the Becker ranch Mom and Lassie grew really close, and same for Dad and Pete, but as time wore on, Dad wanted to increase his income. He found a more profitable opportunity at a large ranch 10 miles south of Mullen, approximately an hour’s drive from Ashby, and in 1979 the family of five relocated.

Three years after the move, I made an unexpected arrival into the family fold. Tony was 16, Tonya 13 and Tommy 10. Incredibly, my birthdate is July 31, while Tonya’s is August 1, and Tony’s August 2. Some calculations left me wondering if it meant Mama and Papa Boots liked to get intimate on Halloween, but Mom set the record straight for me.

No no, silly – there’s nothing romantic about Halloween, she explained. "Our anniversary is just a few days before that spooky day, though."

Ah yes. Of course.

Photos from the day of my birth reveal I arrived with black hair, but within days it had changed to a wonderful shade of red, and has mostly been that way ever since. My Grandpa Gerald had red hair as a younger man, and my brother Tony and I were the only two of his grandchildren to end up with the same hue. Mixed in with my freckles and blue eyes, my red head should give you a decent idea of how fiery and outgoing I’ve been since birth.

Mom says my unexpected arrival that year was nothing but a pleasant surprise, while Dad usually chimes in, a snarky grin on his face, More like a complete accident!

It’s mostly that kind of attitude that left me, for close to 18 years, constantly fighting my father. I didn’t understand him, and he didn’t understand me.

He’d wanted a cowgirl