A blog about GLBT History, Art, Literature, Politics, and Culture. The Closet Professor is a fun (sometimes tongue-in-cheek, sometimes very serious) approach to GLBT Culture.
I love going barefoot. I'm barefoot whenever I can (indoors and out) until my toes turn blue in the winter and until the bees threaten my feet in the summer. My fondest memory is just the feel of grass between my toes. Unfortunately I mostly just remember running around barefoot and stepping on a bee who then proceeded to sting my in the arch of my foot. I tread more carefully now.
Barefoot all summer, and even before school was out, at home at least. And, then in when school was out, barefoot all the time except for church and the movies.... Red Georgia clay, swimming in the creek, and running in the grass...Wish I could do that again!!!
Growing up in west Texas, we didn't have much water to dangle our bare feet in; but like you, we were barefoot all summer except for Sunday mornings at church.The road in front of our house was dirt like most of the other roads around the area. In west Texas the term "dirt" included sand and we had lots of sand everywhere. The wind would sweep the sand across the road and it would build up on the sides of the road. I remember getting up early every summer morning and going out to sit on the edge of our front lawn where it met the dirt road and the sand piled up against the small embankment.I would bury my bare feet in the sand, still cool from the night air. It was a sensual thing in the days before I ever knew what air conditioning was.Later in the morning the sand would heat up significantly and we would have to hot foot it across to keep from burning our feet. At the same time we had to keep a keen eye for sand burrs and goat heads that were everywhere. Stepping on a sand burr in the early summer was no fun at all. It required a quick stop even in the burning sand to pull it out of the bottom of your foot.But after the first couple of weeks of bare footing around, our feet would toughen up and the burning sand and the sand burrs were not nearly so painful. Not so, the goat heads. These were thorns that looked much like a tiny goat's head and the thorns were the goat's horns. They were woody and tough and the would penetrate the toughest feet. They were oh so painful.But in spite of the hazards of going bare foot, burying ones feet in the cool morning sand made it all worth while. Kids these days would think such a simple pleasure a sign of craziness, but it wasn't crazy at all. We didn't have roses in west Texas either. Burying my feet in the sand was my way of stopping to smell the proverbial roses.Jack Scott
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