My Frye boots, big, bulky and battered, the oldest living household survivor of the 1960s, passed away peacefully April 2, 2015 after a long period of increasing obsolescence and occasional embarrassment when I tried to put them on.

They were pre-deceased by my Nehru jacket, four pairs of bell-bottoms and three tie-dyed shirts.

The Frye boots, which were born to go with my Georgy Girl cap and my flower-power plaid denim pants, started life as an accoutrement before becoming symbolic of a consistent misunderstanding of fashion that had long ceased been fashionable. They marked me as a child of my time even when the time was half past the hour.

Reaching maturity in an era before selfies so we couldn’t see how odd we looked in floppy Borsalino hats, they were blocky and clunky and as cool as my madras shorts.

They were boots made for walking, if you didn’t mind lots of pain and discomfort when you walked. And they were, of course, boots made for marching.

They marched in demonstrations and protested the war on behalf of long hair and droopy mustaches. They happened at happenings. They danced the twist and the monkey, the mashed potatoes and the monster mash, although they couldn’t tell the difference between one mash and another.

Sometimes, they even danced to Tommy James and the Shondells. And, although they didn’t like to admit it in public, they frugged. Mostly, they danced by themselves since no one wanted to get close to those two-inch block heels.

But after a long career associating with beads and beards, my Frye boots started to no longer look hip. They looked around and no one was still frugging. They had, in fact, become hep. Hep was not hip.

Without regularly scheduled happenings and annual be-ins, they were overtaken by penny loafers and running shoes, cross-trainers, Nikes and Skechers, orthotics and metatarsal patches. They did not age well, developing a creak when they walked and a clump when they marched.

Cast aside to the dim reaches of the closet, to solitary confinement with tire-tread beach sandals and scratchy straw espadrilles, they tried to make a comeback at high school reunions and nostalgia costume parties. Even there, they were outdone by saddle shoes and wide paisley ties.

The boots are survived by several vinyl Beatles records, a college sweatshirt three sizes too small and full of holes, my pinstriped wedding suit with its shoulder pads and the wide lapels, and assorted ties that no one would actually wear in public. There also may be a string tie somewhere in there, but we really hope not.

The boots will be remembered for their subtle neon yellow color and their commitment to make me finally look taller than I am.

In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions can be made to the Association to Eliminate All Photographic Vestiges of How Utterly Weird We Looked Back Then (AEAPVHUWWLBT).