The Joys of Going Barefoot

Did you go barefoot as a child? If not, you were probably a kid who lived in town and came from an at least relatively comfortable background, meaning your family had an indoor toilet, and you never picked potato bugs off your daddy’s potato plants for a penny a piece). My family, however, was poor, and we lived in the country, or as city people called it, "the sticks." So when we were little, my brother, sister, and I looked forward to the first day of May because that was when Mama would let us kick off our shoes and run barefoot through the grass and dirt, as well as over rocks and occasional pine cones or hickory nuts, not to mention chicken droppings. Of course, being poor country children, our pleasures were simple.  

In case you’re wondering why we had to wait until the first day of May, it was because Mama said that if we went barefoot any sooner, we would come down with some incurable disease that would rot us from the inside out.

Not that you had to be poor or live in the country to go barefoot, but I don't think the kids from the more affluent families in my hometown, who tended to live within the city limits of Fairburn, looked forward to "Barefoot Day" with the same gusto as my siblings and I. That is, if those kids even went barefoot, which I doubt, given the streets in town were paved; and during the summer months in the Deep South, asphalt gets so hot you can literally fry eggs on it, not to mention a slab of bacon and still have heat enough left over to brown a dozen biscuits.  

And what exactly is my point? Well, it's that going barefoot is good for you. One, it's good for you psychologically because it makes you feel free and unencumbered. In other words, it makes you feel lighter emotionally. (It also makes you lighter physically since shoes usually weigh from one to two or more pounds, depending upon the style.) Moreover, as you get older, going barefoot can help you get back in touch with your inner child, the part of you that dares to be true to himself or herself and doesn't give a rat's behind  what other people think.   

In addition, although there's no scientific data to support this theory, going barefoot makes you more creative. In fact, I would argue that the more creative a person is, the more often he or she goes barefoot. Hmm, I wonder if a study would support this hypothesis. Maybe I should undertake such a study, and if I'm proven right, the findings might very well be published in some prestigious journal, after which I'll have my fifteen minutes of fame. Nah, I don't enjoy writing scholarly articles. They require too much research and the editors want to split hairs over every other word. I much prefer writing my blog because, hey, it's my blog and I don't have to support my arguments with research. 

Speaking of research, though, apparently going barefoot might also have its drawbacks. For one, it will make you more likely to contact malaria or some other tropical fever. According to an article by Maria Cheng, AP medical writer, in The Advocate (our local newspaper), ". . . scientists say there might be a potent new tool to fight the deadly mosquito-borne disease [malaria]: the stench of human feet" (p. 3A). Yep, it seems mosquitoes that carry malaria are "three times more likely to be drawn to stinky stockings" than non-stinky stockings (p. 3A). Consequently, scientists are considering developing traps that smell like stinky feet to target malaria-bearing mosquitoes. Moreover, according to Cheng, ". . . the same strategy might be used to target insects that carry other diseases such as dengue and Japanese encephalitis" (p. 3A).

So, with the findings of this scientific study in mind, maybe I need to rethink my argument that going barefoot is good for you. Give me a minute. Okay, I rethought it, and I still think I’m right. Why? Well, if for no other reason than going barefoot makes you a few pounds lighter and stepping on pine cones can count as an aerobic activity. How’s that? (Don’t blame me. My muse just deserted me.).

 Source: Cheng, M. (2013) Stinky Feet May Lead to Anti-malaria Weapon. Baton Rouge, LA: The Advocate, p. 3A

 

No Country for Old Men--or Old Women

Recently, my husband Chet and I watched the movie No Country for Old Men, starring Tommy Lee Jones and Josh Brolin, for the third time, or maybe it was the fourth; I forget, since it’s high on my list of “see-again” movies, and when a movie is high on that list, we tend to see it again and again, thus the rating “see-again.”

Anyway, though there are many memorable lines in the movie, one of them never fails to get me to thinking about how much this world we live in has changed since I was a girl growing up back in rural Georgia. The line to which I am referring occurs when Tommy Lee Jones, who plays the aging sheriff of a small Texas town, is sitting in a diner with another “old timer” and the man says, “I knew this world was in a mess when kids stopped saying, ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘Yes, ma’am.’” 

I don’t know about you, but I have also noticed this phenomenon. With a few exceptions, kids no longer say “Yes, sir” and “Yes, ma’am.” Neither do they say, “No, sir” and “No, ma’am.” What they do say, however, is “Yes,” “No,” Yeah,” “Sure,” “Uh, huh,” “Nope,” or some other word meant to convey the affirmative or the negative; but whatever it is they say, certainly isn’t followed by “sir” or “ma’am.”

I wonder why this is the case? Is it because parents today aren’t teaching their kids manners? Is it because parents have stopped demanding that their kids show them and other adults a little respect by addressing them as “sir” or “ma’am”? Who knows? I certainly don’t. What I do know, however, is that if my siblings and I had addressed our parents without adding “Sir” or “Ma’am” to whatever we were saying at the moment, we would have faced one—or all—of several swift reprisals:

1. Seeing our mother or father go white around the mouth before he or she growled, “Don’t you dare talk to me in that tone, young lady (or young man). What on earth happened to your manners? Were you raised in a barn?”  
2. Having our behinds spanked.
3. Being sent to bed without supper.
4. Having our mouths washed out with Lifebuoy soap.
5. Finding ourselves grounded for a year, with no time off for good behavior. 

Of course, I realize that at least two—maybe even three—of the repercussions listed above would in today’s world result in a child’s parents being accused of child abuse, which is probably one of the reasons why kids today are so ill-mannered, but enough about that. 

In my opinion, that old timer in No Country for Old Men is right; this county is in a mess. Of course, in reality, kids’ lack of respect for their elders is just one of many symptoms of a disease that’s been gnawing away at the fabric of civility in this nation, or what little bit of civility remains, for some time now. And that disease is apathy. That’s right, apathy. Kids today simply do not care. They’re too lazy and indifferent to care. (There are of course exceptions.) But why should kids care? Their parents certainly don’t care. For if they did, those parents would do something to change the situation. They would, in fact, demand that their kids show a little respect for their elders. Then again, I guess the sad reality is that most kids today don’t think their elders deserve any respect; and, of course, that leads to another question: Exactly whose fault is that? And I think we all know the answer.

No Country for Old Men: Google Images

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Memories of Running

Image from

photofolio.co.uk

I remember running. Autumn—air crisp and invigorating, azure sky, and trees dressed in flaming splendor. Winter—the sting of sleet, whisper of falling snow, and air so cold that when my eyes watered, it froze like glacial tears on my cheeks. Spring—dogwoods, daffodils, and azaleas blooming, the first robins, and gentle rains. And summer—sweltering heat, the smell of new mown hay, and thunderheads looming on the horizon. I remember running.

The first time I ran as an adult, excluding running the bases in family softball games, running to answer the phone when I was outside and heard it ringing insistently inside the house (Pre-cellphone days), or running from an angry wasp or hornet (they sting), was in March of 1979. I was 33-years-old.

I began running not for the aerobic benefits. Not to lose weight. Not  because running was the “in thing” to do. I began for salvation. Yes, that’s right, salvation. More specifically to save myself from debilitating anxiety.  The reason why I was dealing with such anxiety is another story, best left untold, but as I said, the anxiety was debilitating, to the point that I was having panic attacks.  

I would wake up in the wee hours of the night, the house silent and dark around me, and listen to my heart racing frantically in my chest, and I was afraid. Afraid of what, I didn’t know. I was simply afraid. Not understanding why, I went to see our family doctor, who prescribed some type of antianxiety drug. I’ve forgotten which drug specifically; however, after only a few doses, I realized that I did not want to feel that way—like I was sleepwalking through my days. Nor did I want to be dependent upon medication to keep me sane.  

At some point I read an article, perhaps in a magazine, perhaps in the newspaper, about the benefits of running, one of which was the reduction of anxiety. That very day, I took the bottle of pills to the bathroom, uncapped the bottle, dumped the contents in the john, and pushed the lever. The little pills swirled around in the tank for an instant then disappeared and were gone forever.

Donning a pair of canvas sneakers, I left the house, closed the door behind me, and immediately broke into a run. I think I made it as far as the mailbox at the top of the hill before I had to stop, gasping for air. We lived in the country on a dirt road about a quarter mile from the next road, which was paved. When I regained my breath and once more began to run, I made it as far as the stop sign at the intersection. Doubling over, fighting to breathe, I almost retched. But not to be deterred by such a minor inconvenience as lack of air or the sudden pain in my side, I started running again. This time I covered even less distance before I had to stop. On top of my labored breathing, my shins were killing me. As it turned out, I had shin splints. Not only were my legs unaccustomed to such exertion, my sneakers were not designed for running.

The following day I drove to a local discount department store—maybe Kmart, maybe Walmart, or another store entirely (I’ve long forgotten)—where I purchased a pair of Nike Pegasus running shoes (I remember those shoes distinctly). Then, I waited for my shins to heal, reading a book on running in the interim, after which I started over again—and correctly. I would run for a few minutes, walk for a few minutes, then run again, and as the weeks passed, my running time became longer and my walking time shorter. By June of 1979 I was running 10 miles without stopping and walking none of that distance. Moreover, for the first time that summer I experienced the runner’s high, that endorphin-generated state of euphoria produced during prolonged period of physical exertion.  

Image fron ak.picdn.net

Even now, these many years later, I vividly recall that day. It was autumn, late afternoon, and I had been running for perhaps eight miles, when suddenly—click—like a switch had been turned on—I experienced a sense of almost overwhelming exultation and peace, as well as a “oneness” with the world around me. The world, in fact, had never looked so astoundingly beautiful. Each leaf on every tree was distinct, the play of light across the fields was almost too beautiful to behold, the chimney sweeps soaring against the red and dying sky took my breath away. Everything was so astoundingly beautiful. It was like seeing the world for the first time, or, more appropriately, the way a person must feel who has been blind from birth and miraculously had her sight restored. I felt like I could reach out and touch the face of God. I also felt  if I could run forever—just continue putting one foot in front of the other until my heart exploded from the sheer unadulterated joy of  running. I had never felt so alive.

I continued running 10 miles a day for years, until 1991 to be exact, and though I didn’t always experience the runner’s high, I experienced it occasionally and often enough to make me truly appreciate it for what it was (at least to me)—a form of communion with my Creator.

Image from nailsworrthstrengthandfitness.co. uk

After 1991, however, though I occasionally ran and sometimes for long distances, I was no longer compulsive about it, perhaps because my salvation was no longer dependent upon running, since my circumstances had changed (another story). But, alas, time takes its bitter toll. I am now much, much older, and my body will no longer allow me to run. I miss running, though. I miss it desperately. I miss feeling my legs churning in long, smooth strides over winding dirt roads and along shaded, woodland trails. I miss the wind and rain and sun on my face as the miles fly past. I miss the measured beat of my pulse, the sweat streaming into my eyes, the sound of my Nikes padding over the earth. I miss running.

I still run in my dreams, though. In my dreams, I am gliding, soaring up and down hills, my feet barely touching the ground, and I am as light, as unencumbered, as free a feather floating in the wind. I am running. I am a runner. And I am home.