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The Barefoot Days of Summer

By Elton Camp

	When I was a child in rural Alabama during the 1940s, going barefoot during the summer months was still a general practice, especially for boys.  It was feasible because few roads were paved and sidewalks in the country were virtually nonexistent.  The sun on hard, dark surfaces created burn hazards that prevented city kids from going without shoes outside the confines of their own yards.  

	My father’s childhood had been spent in the more distant rural areas of Marshall County.  He and his siblings went shoeless partly by choice and partly because it was the inexpensive thing to do.  Shoes for their large family would represent a significant cost.  Memory being the fickle thing that it is, he looked back on “going barefoot” as a privilege and source of delight.  It was a childhood rite that he wanted me to enjoy.  

	“You can start going barefoot now,” he announced in June of each year.  His tone showed that he considered he was doing something wonderful for me, so I didn’t want to disappoint him by revealing my true feelings.  Going shoeless hurts—a lot.  Sharp rocks and stubs of plants seemed to be everywhere.  After about a month, the soles thicken enough that walking becomes less painful, but it’s mainly a matter of degree.  Without a doubt, the sandy, grass-free yards of his youth contained fewer perils.  

	In the forties, our yard had what passed for grass, but it actually was a mixture of grass, clover, and general weeds.  When the clover bloomed, it created a hazard that no amount of tough skin could prevent—bee stings.  The pain was intense and lasted a couple of days.  The only treatment my parents knew was to moisten the head of a kitchen match to make a paste to apply to the sting.  Despite their assurance that the folk treatment would help, I felt no better beyond the fact that something was being done.  In later years, I took a perverse comfort when I learned that the sting tears out the internal organs of the bee so that it dies shortly.  The mere fact that I was crushing the insect with my foot gave it no right to retaliate. 
 
	Apart from the beach, I haven’t seen a barefoot child over a year old in a long time.  Viewpoints and circumstances change and that childhood ritual has vanished.  Good riddance to it.
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