Bare Feet

I’m a barefoot kind of girl. I remember running around barefoot so much that my feet built up enough callouses to let me run on the driveway without shoes. I’ve pampered my feet a bit more since then, not by wearing more shoes, but by not living with gravel driveways. Somehow tile kitchens and carpeted floors don't build up callouses.  But the memories of my barefoot farm days are still alive. Especially every time I go home and try to walk on the driveway barefoot without nearly as much success as I feel like I should have.

My nemesis, however, were the thistles. For the most part I was safe from them. But there was one patch of grass, under the clothesline, that was determined to get me. No matter what we did, those thistles kept growing. I remember Dad spraying them. I remember taking out a shovel and digging them all out. But they always grew back, determined to break me of my barefoot ways. But time defeated the thistles. Eventually I grew up and moved away from home, protecting my feet from the thistles. Until, of course, I visit home and forget about my nemesis and go flying across the yard in my bare feet.