something I miss

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.


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