Summertime and bare feet were synonymous when I was a kid. I kicked my shoes off when school got out in June and tried my best not to wear them unless absolutely necessary. I loved splashing in the puddles from an afternoon shower and walking through the cool grass after sunset. Even running across gravel and hot black pavement had its own reward—a sense of “tomboy toughness”—proof I could hang with the boys in the hood.
There was an occasional down side—like the time I almost cut my big toe off while chasing my cousin through my great aunt’ backyard. Rene, the aunt, (and her ancestors before her) often pitched broken china into garden spots, perhaps a common practice before regular city garbage pick-up. When I saw the blood covering my foot, I figured I’d taken a shard in a big way. Turned out, I’d squished a big fat berry as I traipsed through her strawberry patch and wasn’t injured at all. The relief was twofold—no stitches needed--more importantly, I wasn't caught smashing her perfectly good berries! When the sun beat down on the streets, tar bubbled up like boiling water, stretching that gooey black substance into little raised pockets we couldn't resist. Racing to pop the biggest bubbles that often splattered and stuck, we drew a slight frown from mom at the end of our day of play. Scrubbing sticky tar off sometimes pulled a little skin with it, but cleaning those tar-crusted feet was a routine as hot summers in the south. Bare feet were worth a little discomfort. Besides, heel blisters and pinched toes from wearing shoes were no picnic either. I preferred freedom. I still do.
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I happened to be heading home last night as the storm clouds gathered. For a brief moment I thought I might get in before the deluge, but pulling into Barbara’s drive seemed to mark the limit of the sky’s holding power. The first raindrops fell as the car door slammed and within seconds, a solid wall of rain surrounded me. The relatively short distance home seemed to take forever, for I could recognize nothing around me—no landmarks were visible as the walls of water poured down. Strong winds blew the rain, swirling it up and around to fill the streets with free standing waterfalls. Electrical power must have already been interrupted although that didn’t occur to me. There was an eerie light pushing the darkness as the glow of early summer evenings struggled to peek through the black clouds.
No one was out but me—no cars, no lights at the library—a creepy tingle traveled up the back of my neck as I trudge on toward home and safety. A few limbs had fallen into the street as I approached Front from Main. I carefully maneuvered past the obstacle blocking my path and breathed a sigh of relief as I turned into my drive. Thankful for the overhang along the edge of my roof, I pulled close to the back steps, gathered my things and managed to move quick enough to gather but a few rain drops. The storm raged on for over an hour, several of my neighbors lost power. My lights only flickered a couple of times as I sat quietly reading—thankful to be warm and dry inside my home. |
Citizens of OxfordThis is a place to reminisce. What do you remember about growing up in Oxford, NC? Archives
August 2016
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