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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August 2016
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