Barefoot

 

As I child I went barefoot all summer. You were supposed to wait till after May first, but I always sneaked and let my feet out sooner. As a result of free feet all week, Sunday was an agony in those patent leather torture traps. By the end of summer my feet had lengthened and widened so that new shoes were a necessity for school. Grown-ups would tell me that if I did not wear shoes my feet were going to be huge, but it did not bother me a bit because all my family had big feet (the better to stand on, my dear).
There were plenty of hazards. It seemed I always had a stumped big toe and sometimes when I got it good against a rock the stump would include the next toe also. There were stone bruises, briars, splinters, cuts, and occasionally a nail puncture. Kerosene was poured into puncture wounds, splinter and briars were dug out with needles and pocket knives. The rest was simply endured till they healed themselves. Not a thought was given to the injuries before I leaped foot first into mud puddles and streams that ran through cow pastures.
But long ago I stopped going barefoot. I wear mainly flip flops when I am home, and believe it or not, there is a world of difference between the two. Recently I have been trying barefoot again. I don’t intend to tackle the driveway gravel, but the cool floor in the house is delightful and the feel of soft grass is just exquisite. Paying attention to these sensations reminds me why I loved going barefoot so much, in spite of the dangers.