When I picture going home I always have the same image in my head, in the backyard, jeans cuffed, barefoot in the grass. Not that I’m never barefoot here, but I’m never barefoot outside – for obvious reasons living in Oakland. And after a day walking around SF in flip flops, I usually go home and scrub my feet down. But it’s different in Louisiana. I remember always being barefoot when at home and walking outside, down the block, into the backyard without a second thought. I would help my mom plant her garden in the spring and I was probably barefoot while gardening. The winters never got cold enough for the need to put shoes on for a jaunt to the mailbox. And after a rainstorm, having stolen my mom’s empty butter containers from the cabinet, my sister and I would go barefoot to the end of the driveway where the water rushed to the storm drain to collect the worms that came afloat. I joke about my sister’s twins being raised to run in the backyard barefoot and half-clothed in Pensacola, but I secretly miss those days – won’t ever fess up to being half-clothed, but barefoot indeed.