Devonne Brown

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May first is Legal Barefoot Day. The day that my sister and brother and I were allowed to go outside without shoes and not get in trouble for it. Grass stains and bee stings were the worst that could happen to us. Mom would scrub our feet raw every night in the summer time to get the grass stains off of our feet, but we’d be outside playing in the grass the very next day. She’d rather wash the green off of our feet than out of our pristine white tennis shoes. We had to put white shoe polish on them before we could wear them outside. They would always wash white if we polished them. She hated fresh cut grass.

Keeping shoes on my boys’ feet wasn’t easy. They were either outside in socks or in their bare feet. They didn’t care what day of the year it was. It could be January for all they cared. Legal Barefoot Day meant nothing to them. It still doesn’t.

Nick decided that being barefoot was a dangerous way to walk the earth at three years old. His first barefoot catastrophe occurred in North Carolina when a co-worker’s husband helped set up a swingset for us. Nick ran around being Tom’s little helper carrying tools and supplies. He offered advice about wrenches and screwdrivers. Nick held pipes and chains like any good worker would. He was a big strong man, barefoot as he could be. 

Then he stepped in a pile of warm dogshit. 

Wails of terror and disgust rang throughout the yard. We had no close neighbors, but I’m sure even they were ready to call child protective services. I ran to Nick and he reached for me, wrapping his arms around my neck and legs around my waist. Yuck. 

I disengaged him without getting any of the putrid stuff on me, and taught him to scrape his foot on the grass. We were able to get most of it off as well as convince him he wasn’t going to die. 

His sobbing and gagging subsided as warm soapy water washed what was left of the stench and grainy goo down the drain. A footbath on the side of the tub righted the wrong of the world once again.