A Solid Stop

I brought that steel shoehorn back inside after the porch chilled off and headed over to the boot rack by the entryway. The bottom timber had an easy tilt where the rug caught underneath, letting the rack drift every time the front door swung shut. I crouched down on the dark floorboards, set the curved heel of the shoehorn flat against the oak, and worked the scooped edge right under the corner post. With an easy shove from the heel of my boot, it slid home with a snug, gritty squeak. The rack settled dead square. I leaned my back against the wall, stretched out my boots, and watched the oak grain catch the warm lamplight.