Visiting Lincoln  

This cool weather has me daydreaming about warm weather days past, and the occasions over the years when I felt silly enough to go somewhere barefoot.

Several years ago, on a rainy road trip day through southern Indiana, I ventured down U.S. 231 to see the Lincoln boyhood historic site. I wore a rain hoodie with my old clothes, and I’d kicked off my sandals in the car. Once I arrived at the visitors’ lot for the cabin and farm, I wondered if anyone would mind if I didn’t put my shoes back on? The prospect seemed so pleasant, to be barefoot outdoors! One way to find out…

I walked up the path to the restored historic farm, in my rainy-day outfit and bare feet. I thought, This is a totally foolish thing to be doing! But I felt pleasingly audacious, and the warm rain on the mulch felt wonderful, as did the rough texture of the cabin floor. The interpreter at the cabin, in period costume, greeted me warmly and explained the site, and since I’ve studied Lincoln’s life, we chatted about the great man and his times.

There were no other guests at that moment, so the guide walked me to other aspects of the farm, perhaps glad for an informed visitor, and seemingly amused that I’d no shoes on—an unintended pioneer style (although my hoodie wasn’t authentic for 1818)…

What fun, just to stay barefoot! Thus all these whimsical memories.

A Sense of Occasion 

Several years ago I read an article in the Southwest airline magazine Spirit, about going barefoot. The author is Kimberly Garza, assistant editor of the magazine. (The April 2009 article used to be linked here: spiritmag.com/click_this/article/go_barefoot/ ) On the same theme, I also like John Updike’s essay “Going Barefoot” in his collection Hugging the Shore (Knopf, 1983), in which he delights in remembered walks to the post office, the stores, and the parks in Martha’s Vineyard, and Barbara Hollman’s essay about bare feet in her 1995 book Endangered Pleasures: In Defense of Naps, Bacon, Martinis, Profanity, and Other Indulgences (William Morrow).

Garza lightheartedly calls herself a “foot nudist.” She notes that many people consider bare feet “icky” and impolite. Yet our feet are more sensitive than our fingers, so we’ve all kinds of possibilities of tactile memories through walking: a sidewalk, summer grass, the fur of a pet, the texture of the curb on which you try to balance, a soft carpet.

Garza talked about folks who didn’t “get it”—why a person feels such peace and satisfaction simply by removing shoes. But some folks do. I know people who have to have their toes in the beach sand, at least once a year, in order to have a regular sense of well-being, and I know other people who can't wait to get outdoors onto their porch and lawn in springtime. As someone who was a teenager in the 1970s (a bit of an "old hippy"), I've also enjoyed other textures, and I’m grateful that I knew them: the warm concrete outside the ice cream place; the cool linoleum as I navigated my squeaky cart through grocery aisles; the mulch spread along a hiking trail; the breeze and bike pedal as I rode my bike; and other cheerful moments.

Nearly all of these moments were like my visit to the Lincoln farm. I was at home or in my car, with my sandals kicked off for the nice weather. I wanted to go somewhere, and probably 99.9% of the time I slipped them back on. But every once in a while, I thought, “Oh heck, why bother?”, and I ran my errand barefooted.

When I took shoeless neighborhood walks, I never carried sandals along but I watched out for things like acorns and pebbles.

As I got into my thirties and beyond, I liked to go out barefoot as an once-in-a-while summer treat, a peaceful way—like my beach-loving friends—to renew a sense of well-being.

All in all, the simple feelings of fun and peace overcame the silliness and, of course, the mild inappropriateness of having no shoes on. The motions of walking—the way the soles present themselves behind you, the pushing off of the toes and their emphatic landing—feel so cool and light. Imagine being shoeless through your house, making that gentle thud as you step, and you feel so relaxed. Then imagine being out somewhere with nothing on your feet, but you don’t feel embarrassed or squeamish about it. You feel cheerful and mischievous, “full of yourself” in a good way.

To think about it one more way: it’s a little like the host or hostess of a casual house party (usually the hostess) who, dressed and barefoot, is ready for the party. Padding in my bare feet down the sidewalk or through the grocery or the video store or wherever, I created a cheerful, special occasion---which was also lovely if I was feeling blue or distressed.

I often met likeminded folks who “get it”, as I write in some of the anecdotes below, and it’s a fun encounter—like chatting with another fan of Monty Python or The Big Lebowski.  But instead of saying things like, “She turned me into a newt” or “Yeah, well, that’s just, like, your opinion, man,” they say things like, “I love going barefooted, too!” or “I always go barefoot!”

“Oh, Heck, Why Bother?”

A few years ago, the early spring day was warm and pretty. I needed to drive to the ATM to deposit a check and then to the pharmacy drive-through to pick up a prescription. The new warmth outdoors was wonderful. So I didn’t slip on shoes and enjoyed again the feeling of the accelerator and brake pedals beneath my feet, not to mention the gritty floor mat that alerted me, sometime in the near future, to take the car through the car wash.

One time a friend stopped by my dorm room and wanted to know if I wanted to go to the neighborhood market, an easy walking distance. I was ready for a break from studying and, glancing down, had an “Oh, heck” moment. My friend and I had a nice early autumn saunter as we chatted about this and that, and the path to the store felt so good.

On a sunny day, in a town where we lived, I went out the front door in my bare feet and began to unlock my car in the driveway. I had a short errand to run. First, a big, friendly dog appeared next to me, quickly followed by a barefoot neighbor-friend in PJs. Her buddy had escaped and run down the street, and she had to retrieve him before he got too far. She laughed about her appearance, as did I about my own.

About twenty years ago, I worked at home on a pretty weekday to clean, declutter, and gather donations for our church, which was collecting household items to send to a domestic mission. It's enjoyable to undertake a household project barefoot, feeling the surfaces of your home floors, driveway and yard as you accomplish something satisfying. I put our stuff in boxes and loaded them in the car to take to church.

I got the notion not to slip my shoes back on. There was probably no one at church, I thought, but if I saw anyone, they’d get a chuckle at my eccentric ways. Sure enough, two friends—the pastor’s wife, who was there to help with some office work, and the secretary—kidded me about my comfortable feet as I unloaded the boxes.

A Long-Time Fad

When I was a teenager in the early and mid 70s, staying barefoot on errands and events like county fairs and such was a fad, not common but frequent enough that one saw kids and sometimes adults in public without their shoes on. Such cheerful souls would stroll shoeless to the neighborhood market or into the grocery store or the library. Even the famously classy Jackie Kennedy Onassis was seen shopping barefooted in Italy. Bell-bottomed jeans could hide your feet for errands, and if you wore regular jeans or shorts, well, your feet could run but they couldn’t hide…

The fad endured through the 80s and petered out in the early 90s, though it seems to be returning now in the mid 10s. Needless to say, I enjoyed the fad and liked to keep it going over the years.

In my small hometown, my cousins’ gift shop carried LPs and 45s, and around the corner was the library, City Hall (where the water-sewer office was located), and the newspaper office. Down Fourth Street, past other shops and the electric company, was the post office. Sometimes I volunteered to drop off my parents’ utility bills and to pick up a newspaper. One summer morning I found an excellent parking place in front of City Hall and with a contented sigh, I walked around barefoot. The sidewalks felt warm and smooth beneath the thump of my heels, like our back porch, and the sensations of sidewalks alternated with cool floors and low nap carpets as I made my leisurely way.

On another, lazy high school day, I left my cousin’s store with a new record. Outside, I encountered a fellow student whom I didn’t care for much, and whom I just didn’t want to see that day. Fortunately he stood away from the store and looked toward the street, apparently watching for someone. I was able to stroll silently behind him on tiptoe and down to my car. Who could manage such a furtive maneuver while wearing flip-flops?

Because I’m not entirely (or even very) self-confident, I noticed when other folks skipped their shoes; their happiness (or laziness) validated my own. For instance, I remember leaving our local IGA as an acquaintance was heading cheerfully into the store. She was dressed in her cool top and jeans and carried her purse, but her feet were bare. I assumed she had one of those pleasant moments when she was already shoeless at home and decided to just stay that way for other tasks, in this case, a trip to the supermarket

A hometown friend loves to remember walking to our small downtown without her shoes, and watching where she walked, so that her fond hometown memories include cracks in the sidewalks, the black streets to dash across, and the places lawn grass encroached upon the warm concrete.

(Somewhere I read that going barefoot improves your eyesight. You have to watch where you’re going …)

Barefoot Errands

Every so often, I loved going shoeless to the grocery or the pharmacy. What a pleasant prospect, like my acquaintance at the IGA, to go barefooted to the store and enjoy a cheerful respite from a hot summer day. I went inside, took a cart, and began  the journey through familiar aisles. The cold air at the frozen food displays felt wonderful. At the end of the errand, unless I became self-conscious, having no shoes assuaged the aggravation of a slow checkout line.

One day, I left my dorm room in my bare feet and drove to a favorite store for supplies. Down at the block of campus shops, I found a good parking spot, padded into the store, navigated the aisles with soft steps, and purchased my items. I felt happy at a completed chore, and what fun to feel that airy lightness around my feet! Returning to campus, I encountered a friend who loved to talk. He saw me first—arrgh! But I’m too tenderhearted to brush people off, especially a friend. Walking along, I carried my purchases, watched my toes stroll, and said uh huh, uh huh as my friend reported on his day and week.

Another time, during a similar morning errand, I regretted dashing into a pharmacy, because the store was undergoing remodeling, shelves were moved, and I didn’t want to step on anything sharp. “Can I help you?” asked the manager, and figuring I was “busted”, I said I was looking for a certain product but couldn’t find it. He was helpful, and as it turned out, he didn’t know where the product was either! I followed him up and down aisles, with the incongruous thud of my footsteps upon the linoleum, and we finally located the item. Thank you, Mr. Manager, for your patience and your helpfulness!

Still another time, I happened into a woman who was padding through a drug store. I commented that she had a great idea. She agreed, stating that she had to wear steel-toed shoes at work and was glad to get them off!

Forgetfulness

If you’re comfortable being barefoot, sometimes you forget you took your shoes off, which can be amusing. One morning I couldn’t find my sandals in our room in our South Dakota lodge, as we were getting ready for the day. I realized I had slipped them off in the lounge/lobby area of the lodge the evening before, as we relaxed. When we visited some of the lodge’s gift shops, I was still barefoot. That morning, as I tried to find my sandals, I found them, still in the lounge room, at the cozy chair where I had sat.

At one of my schools, a classmate kicked off her shoes for some social time that we all were having on the lawn of the dorms. She didn’t retrieve them; they remained the next day, placed together on the dorm sidewalk where she’d left them.

One weekend morning, not so long ago, I decided to do some writing on my laptop at the coffee shop. Getting a large black coffee, I set up at an outside table and spent a peaceful hour or so, trying to catch a current of creativity where the writing would do itself, but mostly I waded in the shallows, so to speak. Still, I felt nicely comfortable with my toes on the cool concrete beneath the chair, and I mostly forgot about it, as if I were in my backyard. When I remembered, I felt happy.

In childhood, you go about your day’s pleasures and not think about shoes unless your parents insist on it. On a particular day during grade school years, I walked to the park, and it was a while before I realized, Oh, I’ve no shoes on. I only remembered because I stepped on some thistles. I walked home, and my father was alarmed to see me returning to the park with his long, sharp pruning shears in hand.

We adults no longer set out barefoot with the goal of a fun and unstructured day, forgetful of our unprotected feet until something reminds us.

Folks We Meet

Going barefoot signals you’re spontaneous, genuine. You announce to the world that you’re unique, happy, relaxed, goodhearted, and have a sense of humor about yourself and a measure of inner freedom.

Some people will think you’re odd!  Others will appreciate your spirit.

In fact, in recalling all these silly, cheerful occasions, I’m surprised how many folks expressed commonality or approval. Those who were put off didn’t say so. Again, it’s like meeting fans of the same book or movie. In one place we lived, the dry cleaners was just up the road. As I dropped off our good clothes, how joyful to step from the car, balance for a moment on the concrete curb, and touch the cool floor as I left our items. “I noticed you’re barefooted!” the clerk said one day. “I can’t wait to get home and take off my shoes at the end of the day here!”

I received similar hospitality at the mail box store around the corner. I come in with photocopies to make, but I wanted to inquire first about my "Oh heck" moment. “You can go barefoot anytime!” declared the clerk at that store, somewhat surprisingly.  So I stood at the photocopiers and organized my books and papers, my feet free as if I were working at home. (When she resigned as store manager to start her family, I gave her a small gift.)

Still another time, while visiting a favorite, quaint town, I strolled among tables for a Saturday morning sidewalk sale. Spotting an item that would make a good birthday present, I gave it to the clerk at the table, who told me I could pay inside. “I’m barefooted, is it okay if I go in?” “Oh, sure!  I’d be barefoot, too, if I could!” This led to a brief conversation about how happy it is to kick off one’s shoes. "Sometimes I feel like going barefoot," she said, "so I step outside and just go!"

We meet people through the businesses we use. All of us function within everyday interconnections, and others work in their jobs on our behalf. Moving away, we don’t know what became of such folk. But if they come into our minds, for whatever reason, we can lift up a prayer for their well-being.

Being Dependable

Here’s one of my favorite younger-days memories of barefootedness (to coin a term). In one place we lived, I loved to relax and de-stress by taking shoeless walks. Cooler days felt just fine upon my feet if I wore long sleeves, and on summer days I had to judge how hot the sidewalks had become. I felt like a kid, free to go outdoors barefoot, starting in the morning.

Down the easy walking distance was a neighborhood market, and during many such walks, getting a few groceries was a natural addition. I loved the feeling of the smooth, cool linoleum beneath my soles after the rough textures of the sidewalk and parking lot. I made my selections, returned to the front and then, as her time allowed, the store owner and I conversed a while as I stood at the counter. Then I enjoyed the return walk home.

The owner was a nice acquaintance at the time. Sometimes we even talked about religion! It’s a shame that acquaintances like her aren’t usually the type of person with whom we stay in touch, but as I say, we can remember them with a hopeful prayer.

My routinely liberated feet and toes became a running joke, no pun intended, because the owner also preferred going that way, and considered me a sympathetic customer for slipping from her sandals. “I’m glad you go barefoot!” she declared. “I would, too, but customers give me dirty looks. But my feet are never near the food, so what’s the problem?” She even scolded me one day (jokingly) for wearing sneakers. I had unintentionally failed as an ally.

Places “where everyone knows your name” are precious. It’s not every day that you’re encouraged to be barefooted in public, and dependably so at that.

Renting Videos

A while back, I purchased a new wallet. Cleaning out my old one, I removed my no-longer-used laminated cards for video rental shops. I felt sad doing so, as I recalled our many trips to rent VHS tapes and later DVDs.

When my daughter was young, there was a Road Runner Video store in the nearby grocery store plaza. We frequented the place, especially in summertime but also after school. I had made the decision to stay home with our daughter during her grade school summers. We got all kinds of shows and videos over the years. I remember one called “The Brave Frog,” which I thought was horrible. When I looked the movie up on imdb.com, I realized that my opinion was pretty much the critical consensus! Of course, we also got the Disney classics, some cartoon shows on video, and other straight-to-video movies that were enjoyable.

Every once in a while, we’d see barefoot customers in the store. Video stores seemed like a perfect place into which one could dash san shoes; they’re not fancy places, you don’t aim to linger, and there is little potential for broken glass. On one occasion, a young mom and daughter, both shoeless, stood in line in front of us. It was certainly a place into which I occasionally padded for a quick return and fine-payment.

A Hollywood Video place opened down the street, which we also used, and the Road Runner eventually closed. I was sad to see it go, with all the associations I had of “field trips” with our daughter. I found a short feature on YouTube that expresses the pleasures of renting movie: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26eQ3QpNB6Q

Love of Record Stores

I remember a used-LP shop (though not its name) with fondness, and not just because I shopped there once or twice without my shoes. There was a pleasant period of my life (among thankfully many wonderful periods) when I collected opera sets. I stopped at some point, because I realized I’d more than enough to listen to (including three or four Ring des Nibelungen recordings). But I think this was the place where I purchased a Verdi opera on the Cetra Everest label, with that series’ simple, gold and white box that for me was somehow appealing and reminiscent of my first purchases of used classical LPs.

Likely needing a “humor risk” (as I describe elsewhere in these thoughts), I drove over to the shop, which was located beneath another store. Parking nearby, I tiptoed down the steps and browsed the selection. What a nice errand!

Thinking about the place, I don’t recall the walls other than they contained posters and cover art and the like; I recall a wonderfully casual atmosphere, counter-cultural in an offhand way, appropriate for a vinyl place, even one that had a nice classical selection.

As I write in other posts, there’s a happy incongruity in going to stores, standing in line to make your purchases, carrying your shopping bags, and having free feet. I climbed the stairs with my purchases and watched my toes step upon the walkway toward my car.

As I was writing this, I remembered Jeff’s Classical Records in Tucson, which closed several years after I visited. Once I tiptoed in shoeless. It was a terrific store for classical music collectors. Vinyl stores have always been for me favorite destinations, and in two or three of them over the years, I “forgot” my sandals.

A Dear Friend

I miss a friend whom I visited several times over the years, with our spouses or separately. We also phoned and wrote. Among our many topics of conversation, we liked going barefoot. She would’ve called these jovial thoughts “an armchair barefoot experience.”

During a summertime visit, we were touring her community, and we both decided to kick off our sandals in the car and stay that way for a while. What a good-natured variance from the norm—at the time, we were on one side and the other of 40—but we figured, carpe diem.

First we padded around the shops of that area, popped into a greeting card place, and visited a favorite bookstore of hers and browsed the shelves. Then we went to the park where she said she liked to stay shoeless in summer, and we walked around there for quite a while, in the grass and on the path. At some point in the afternoon we stopped on the sidewalk and did the obligatory, humorous comparison of the bottoms of our feet. Each of us sported a black footprint, which was obnoxious but to us also funny.

She needed to get groceries for supper, so we went to the supermarket. Still barefoot, we ran across the hot parking lot, explored the aisles, and assembled the evening’s recipe ingredients. Then, grocery bags in hand, we ran across the parking lot again, laughing at the heat and our own silliness.

During this whole time, we chatted about many things: family, careers, dreams. She was a great, humble person with whom to chat and laugh, and these years after her passing I still think of her nearly once a week.

Temporary Footprints

You might thinking, “Dusty feet are gross,” and actually I agree. After I’ve taken a neighborhood stroll, or otherwise been out shoeless, I can’t wait to get home and get clean. I don’t like the appearance or feeling. It’s like getting your hands dirty accomplishing some task, but you don’t want necessarily to look that way for very long.

But from another perspective: it’s pleasant to enjoy the day as you gain peaceful tactile memories through your soles and interact with other folks in this humble way. The humorous, necessary result, so reminiscent of childhood adventures, is a temporary footprint upon your own feet—-something you can laugh at yourself about and quickly wash away.

Going Outdoors

Working in the yard is enjoyable without shoes, unless you (like us) have a tree that produces acorns or sweet gum balls, which really hurt when you walk on them shoeless.

I remember a neighbor who worked in the flowerbed barefooted, and also wore gardening gloves. Protected hands and free feet.

Walking through autumn leaves without shoes is also a joy. During Indian summer days, you feel the leaves between your toes. To me, the feeling is as nice as beach sand. Raking leaves barefoot makes a tedious job a little more fun and brightens the cooler days, when I stayed warm in a hoodie.

Garage sales can be enjoyable to visit in your bare feet, although with the accompanying cheerfulness in your heart, you might spend too much money. I liked to stroll down to Saturday morning sales that seemed to happen regularly in summer among our downsizing neighbors.

Picnics are also fun occasions to be shoeless. One year, I was the only such guest at a July 4th cul-de-sac potluck—and how peaceful to be completely barefoot at a gathering as you fill your plate and get your drink and then sit around with folks talking. I regretted my choice, however, when one goofball neighbor decided to set off bottle rockets…

Some happy summer memories include times when I enjoyed my hobby of photography and set out to photograph a quaint downtown or pretty landscape or artsy scene in the countryside. I had my camera and lens ready for the day, but having no shoes felt so good.

Going Out for Ice Cream

Eating ice cream and going barefoot are two wonderful summer pastimes. We used to live near a Baskin-Robbins ice cream place, a sweet temptation in summertime when our daughter was little. At least once I stopped by without my shoes on. The floor felt refreshingly chilly beneath my feet and toes as I ordered my chocolate fix at the display freezer.

This was the same store where, during a family stop, I noticed a group of folks who had arrived together in a van. One of the women, who was barefoot and otherwise nicely dressed, sat at a table as she ate her bowl of ice cream and rocked a stroller with her toes to soothe the fussy baby.

On a road trip several years ago, I wasn’t ready to settle in for the evening. So I decided to drive into the small Indiana town for ice cream. I decided to leave my sandals at the motel room. At the ice cream place, a decent crowd had gathered, two lines at the two windows, and I joined them. I realized that the concrete in front of the place was still hot from the day. But I had my heart set on a sundae and just toughed it out. As I waited my turn, I moved my feet around, like a dancer practicing steps, to find a cool spot on the ground.

Cheerful Walks and Hikes 

For a long time, I enjoyed taking neighborhood strolls without shoes. I miss a neighborhood where we lived, with smooth sidewalks and soft grassy areas. I could walk a half-mile or more with no discomfort. In our previous neighborhood, such walking was a little challenging, because the sidewalks were more sporadic and I’d have to stroll in the street; I’d have to get used to the rougher texture.

A down-the-street neighbor was the parent of two or three boys. Sometimes I’d see her walking barefoot down the sidewalk and around our cul-de-sac, talking on her cell phone. She was obviously getting some quiet time for herself.

We don’t have a dog, but if we did, I’d use dog-walking as an excuse to enjoy the outdoors through my feet. I can think of several such folks that we’ve known—like our acquaintance who walked her buddy down the sidewalk in the late afternoon to get his business done. She still wore her nice work outfit but had removed her shoes. “I love going barefoot!” she said.

In addition to neighborhood walks, I’ve loved longer hikes, like two favorite nature trails where, on two or three occasions, I walked along the grassy and dirt paths. I’d taken the trails before in walking shoes, so I knew the terrain and felt okay about bringing no shoes or sandals.

One of the trails alternated for two miles between pretty timber and open meadows, and included a few small hills to climb, plus the trail offered the comforting, nostalgic sight of an old barn as the path curved around and back into timber. A small bridge forded a stream that was sadly polluted, a shade of bright orange. But there was also a green pond where frogs croaked and turtles peaked above the surface.

I walked for perhaps an hour through this beautiful countryside. I watched my strolling toes, kept an eye out for stones on the trail, and on slopes I was aware of my toes digging into the soft earth for traction. How pleasant to go on a long hike completely barefooted! On a stretch of damp soil I noticed behind me that my heels made small dents in the earth, a modest footprint on the land.

Another trail was about a mile, and the path was mostly mulch, which crunched as I walked but “gave” enough to feel nice beneath unprotected feet. I liked this path because, if I began early enough in the morning, I might see deer. The path took me past another green pond, with those familiar croaks and splashes emanating from the water and the songs of birds above.

Shoeless on Chilly Days

I’ve dashed out in the snow without my shoes to get the mail. I don’t recommend this! Yet, chilly days may be okay if you’re otherwise bundled. It’s not that uncommon anymore to see folks at the supermarket in winter coats and flip-flops, even parkas and flip-flops. Such folks show great bravery and hopeful thinking....

On a cool day in grad school, I noticed a classmate, dressed in jeans and long-sleeved shirt and down vest and bare feet, strolling with books and coffee mug to class or to study somewhere. Such a fun incongruity, for my friend had obviously gotten ready for the day but left shoes behind. Similarly I’ve headed outside on rainy days, with my rain hoody and umbrella, and nothing on my feet.

Concrete doesn't hold heat well, which I remembered when I had an "Oh, heck" moment visiting a favorite antique mall in Illinois, one of those close-to-the-highway places with concrete floors and dealers' booths set up with wooden acoustic panels with holes for hanging things. Dressed for the cool autumn day while on a road trip, I went in, asked if it was okay to go barefoot, and sighed peaceful as I followed my toes around the familiar displays and checked for new treasures since my last visit. I was there fifteen or twenty minutes, I suppose, and my poor dumb feet on that floor were so chilly by the time I ambled to the cash register! But it's a warm memory nevertheless.

A neighbor and I used to visit in our driveways on 40-degree afternoons, both of us shoeless as we went out to our mailboxes. That incongruity was pleasantly mischievous—layers of warm clothes, and bare feet. It actually felt comfortable, at least for a few minutes, though I’m sure passersby wondered what the hell we were thinking.

Barefoot and Approachable

My wife and I joke that we must be friendly-looking people, because people like to chat with us, even when we’re glum or distant, or in my case barefoot, too. Sometime in the 80s, I stood with my cart  in a grocery check-out lane. The line moved slowly, I hoped to finish the errand soon, and I felt a little self-conscious about having bare feet. I must've looked blank or annoyed, but an older lady struck up a conversation!

A lost and anxious family, with maps in hand, chose tired, shoeless me among others fueling their cars at a Midwestern, I-64 gas station, to ask for help. Just an amiable-seeming person, even when fatigued! I don’t remember where they were going but they were from the east coast (New Jersey, I think), and this area of the interstate was rather isolated. I knew how to advise them, and they were grateful.

I took a break from a tiring road trip and visited a chain bookstore. My sandals still in the car, I went in and stopped in the “Current Events” aisle and browsed the titles. I thought I was “busted” when a clerk approached me. Instead, the clerk declared, “Oh, that’s such an interesting book!” and we chatted a while.

The store’s cool air and durable carpet felt so good as I strolled leisurely around the shelves and checked out the magazines. Later, another clerk called out, “Let me know if you need help finding something!” when I walked by. I purchased quite a few books and thanked the clerks in response to the tolerant or sincere hospitality.

Speaking of book stores: maybe a dozen times over the years, I’ve tiptoed into a book store—a favorite place, or a store discovered on a road trip—without my shoes on. Those stores are pretty good places to visit that way, if you’re so inclined. The floor is carpeted, there’s no threat of broken glass, and most of the folks are lost in thought.

A Sense of Place

On this blog, I’ve posted quite a bit about my hometown roots and my family genealogy. I fondly remember the summer of 1974, when I was a teenager and driving the seen-better-days ’63 Chevy that had been Dad’s stepfather’s. I was completing two genealogy projects: a family history of the Mom’s family, and also a record of all the tombstone inscriptions in the Pilcher Cemetery near Brownstown, IL, where much of my mom’s side of the family are buried.

The cemetery is about eight miles or so out in the country, not far from state highway 185. Along with the smaller family graveyard down the lane from the main cemetery, there were (at that time) about 200 tombstone inscriptions. My grandma, who had lived in that general area, had pointed out unmarked graves of relatives, so I wanted to record those locations, too.

To do the work, I started in the morning. I put on shorts and tank top but I figured that solitary hours spent walking in the grass didn’t require shoes, so I didn’t even bring them along. A visitor to the cemetery one day didn’t expect to see a barefoot, longhaired young man examining tombstones and carrying a clipboard. (But I’m very friendly-looking; see above.)

On one trip, I decided to drive into town and get ice cream bars and snacks at the grocery store. Such fun to feel the chilly linoleum, in contrast to the warm, coarse grass as I pushed the cart through the little IGA and then stood in line at the single check-out lane to make my purchases.

I also did research in the county courthouse, not only for this but other genealogical and local-history projects. With my sandals kicked off beneath a table, I enjoyed the feeling of the cool concrete floor of the circuit clerk’s office where estate records were kept.

One morning, driving down IL 185, pressing the clutch and accelerator with bare feet, I had an emotional experience of belonging, a sureness that I would always feel a deep connection to this place: my hometown Vandalia and the surrounding Fayette County. (My main blog has a photo of the area of that highway.) During the ensuing years, my home area has been (to use Frank Zappa’s phrase) a conceptual continuity for me. All the history teaching and writing that I’ve done connect to the summers I did local genealogy projects. And all the Bible-related and religious work that I’ve done (including most of my eighteen books) relate back to my grandma Crawford (buried in that cemetery), who inspired me to do genealogy and first got me interested in the Bible and spirituality in a very preliminary way that bloomed a year or two later.

Of course, all this would’ve happened if I’d had my shoes on, but free feet gave me a symbolic as well as literal contact with home ground—and felt wonderful on those back-then summer days.

“If I Had to Live My Life Over”

There is a famous quotation that has made the rounds on greeting cards, the internet, and magazines over the years. It reads, in part, “I’d like to make more mistakes next time. I’d relax. I would limber up. I would be sillier than I have been this trip. I would take fewer things seriously. I would take more chances. I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers. I would eat more ice cream and less beans. I would perhaps have more actual troubles, but… fewer imaginary ones… If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall. I would go to more dances. I would ride more merry-go-rounds. I would pick more daisies.”

The quotation was attributed to “Nadine Stair, 85 years old, Louisville, Kentucky.” I used to know the Kentucky author Byron Crawford and was honored to help him with one of his columns. In his book Kentucky Stories (Paducah, KY: Turner Publishing Company, 1994), pp. 1-2, Crawford writes that he did some research and found someone who had also wondered about the author and had talked to her on the phone. (The person who had called her was daughter of a Louisville resident named Stair, who had gotten at least a phone call a week for about fourteen years, from people wanting to use the article with permission or to congratulate the author.) The author’s name was actually Nadine Strain, who died in 1988. She had published the piece in Family Circle magazine (March 27, 1978), apparently had published nothing else, and was surprised to learn her piece had been so popular and that so many people had inquired about it. Clearly her writing had touched many hearts!

Summer Outfits

It's funny to notice someone who is barefoot but has otherwise looks very put-together—like a downtown store clerk in a somewhat bohemian town where we once lived. She wore spring outfits on nice days but sometimes no shoes. Also my dog-walking neighbor, and my classmate strolling on a chilly autumn day.

As I said earlier, it’s a little like the host or hostess of a casual house party (usually the hostess) who, dressed and barefooted, is ready for the party.

A cousin laughed as she told of another cousin who arrived at a family event barefoot in a suit and tie. He had gotten only so far in “dressing down” from his Sunday best.

At a strip mall in the South, I noticed a fellow in casual summer clothes, walking barefoot into a shoe store with his family. You don’t see many folks in shoe stores starting from scratch, as it were…

Couples

It seems like couples are one or the other: a “no-shoes-no-problem-I-love-it!” person marries a “going-barefoot-is-gross-stupid-and-unsafe” person. My wife Beth doesn’t share my fondness for such adventures, other than indulging me when we took walks; when we visited the very hilly Bisbee, AZ one year, I walked shoeless and we held hands. I’ve seldom seen a barefoot couple, except on the beach. Shopping at the supermarket one day, however, I noticed a young couple padding along, close and hand-in-hand as they shopped. They could’ve been walking along the in-coming tide.

Seated outside at a fast food place, back in the 70s, I noticed a family pile out of their car. Everyone had shoes on but the slim, tan mother, who walked beside her husband behind the two hungry kids into the restaurant.

A young woman stood among the crowd in a Maryland shopping mall in the early 80s. She and her family were watching some sort of performance near the food court. She really was barefoot and pregnant…

And just to take these cheerful memories into the 90s… At a grocery we frequented, two young men were doing their weekly shopping, and one of them was shoeless.

Barefoot Parents

You see parents with shoeless kids, but the reverse is surprising. Those photos of Jackie Kennedy, shopping barefoot in Italy with her two small, shod children, are poignant. One day in the 1980s, I noticed a mother and her teenager folding their clothes in the laundromat. The kid wore shorts and sneakers, and the blue-jeaned woman’s feet were bare. In another town, I passed a shoeless dad who herded four or five little kids, all in sandals, through K-Mart.

A woman and her young son made soft steps as they walked through the convenience store near my former home. A few weeks later I happened to notice her again at the grocery store. “Beautiful day to go barefoot,” I said. “Absolutely! I always go around barefooted in summer!” she declared. “I work for a house-cleaning service and just put on my slippers to go inside!”

That’s a twist: put off your shoes going outside, put them on coming in….

On a road trip with my family, a mother and her teenage sons stood at the gas pump next to ours. She said, “I ALWAYS travel without my shoes on!”

Do such parents fuss and whine to go barefoot until their kids give in and say, “Oh, alright, but just this once…”

Summertime Activities 

I was a stay-at-home dad for my daughter during summers. Among our many activities: when she was still in her stroller, and later when she rode in her red wagon, she and I took shoeless walks around the block. Unencumbered toes were useful in dealing with a stroller’s brake and errant wheels, especially when we detoured to the convenience store for chocolate and I parked the contraption outside.

How nice one morning as we walked down the street, when someone called out, “The world would be a better place if dads spent more time with their daughters!”

She enjoyed a variety of summer camps over the years—few overnight, mostly fun classes in the morning or the morning and afternoon. Occasions when I decided not to put shoes on led to a few humorous situations. A science camp ended with a presentation, which I hadn’t realized when I went to pick her up, so I tucked my feet beneath the chair as I sat with other parents for the grand finale.

“Bare feet! What a great idea!” said a fellow parent as we watched outside a park building, where our children were finishing up a summer class on drawing and painting. A light rain was falling, and we all wore rain jackets and some held umbrellas, but I was the only shoeless person in the group. How pleasant to be able to feel the wet walkway beneath!

A very happy occasion was the time she did a camp at the Humane Society. At the end of the second day, I sat with other parents in the waiting room. Emily emerged and said she wanted me to see this adorable cat named Odd Ball, a young female tabby. I dutifully padded with her into the pet area and experienced for the first of many times the texture of strewn kitty litter beneath unprotected feet. Within a few days we adopted Odd Ball, and she was our fourth family member for over twelve years.

Committed 

Forgoing shoes can be adventurous, because if plans change, you’re committed. One afternoon, as my daughter completed her day at zoo camp, I stood waiting at the gate with other relatives. I had left my shoes behind. But when camp was over, she wanted to visit the gift shop, so I obliged. I discovered that bare feet provided extra, helpful dexterity for negotiating the crowd of parents and kids as I kept up with a small, laughing daughter trotting among the displays of toys, books, and plush animals. Then we stood in line and I enjoyed the free feeling of my feet upon the busy shop’s floor while chatting with another parent. I did miss the humor of being barefooted in a jungle-theme place…

I remember seeing two laughing friends in our savings and loan place. One had business but kept being sent to other offices. The friend, whose bare feet made softy hasty sounds up on the tile floors, was along for company and hadn’t expected the errand to be so complicated.

That was my situation during an enjoyable visit to see friends in another community. When we left for “the fifty cent tour” of their town, I thought we were just driving around and so I left my sandals at their apartment. But my friends decided they wanted to show me their church and its ministries. We could've gone back for my shoes, but I figured, New textures to perceive! And my friends thought I was funny. We went inside, they introduced me to the church staff (who thoughtfully didn't ask), and walked through the church's sanctuary, classrooms, and ministries. The cool floors, stair steps, and sanctuary carpet felt delightful, as did the stone steps outside. Then we drove to the other friends' office at a church agency; same hymn second verse.

Humor Risks 

“Oh, Paul, you’re always barefoot,” declared a neighbor when we happened upon each other at the neighborhood Shell station. It wasn’t that I was always that way–just more frequently than is custom!—and this neighbor and I had happened to cross paths when I was working shoeless in the yard or out walking, and now pumping gas.

Spontaneous barefoot occasions are “humor risks” for me. A few years ago I found this website about how to cheer up when you’re blue, and among bits of advice, the author  encouraged “taking humor risks.” “When you are stuck in your own thoughts, do something just a little wild to get out of it. And do the same thing to help a friend who needs a good laugh.”

Exactly! The website didn’t recommend kicking off one’s shoes, but I like that term to describe these foolish, barefooted forays. There are websites and organizations that encourage a barefoot lifestyle. That was never interesting to me. I’ve simply enjoyed, over the years, these several spontaneous moments when I kicked shoes off for a while. Even if I’m not so blue, it’s a cheerfully silly little thing to do that can get me out of doldrums, or add humor to whatever I’m doing.

Sometimes during a road trip, if I’m down or homesick, I like to leave my sandals in the car when I visit a crafts store or gift shop in a small town. I ask if it’s okay, and frequently I get warm service. I always purchase something at such stores. Such places provide simple, fond memories, so much so that the scent of decorative candles and potpourri remind me of nice-weather drives.

Recently I found a purchase from a few summers ago that I’d misplaced, a plaque with an image of John Wayne and a saying, “Courage is being scared to death, and saddling up anyway.” I had stopped in a small town to take a break from a long drive, and decided to stroll shoeless among the antique malls. Browsing in one nice shop (where the AC seemed to be underfunctioning, so I was glad I stayed cool), I noticed the plaque at my feet. I bought it and later did an internet search about the quotation. Apparently Wayne never said that in any of his movies, but it’s still an apt quotation: a simple reminder to not let our fears get the better of us.

I thought of the quotation again during a summer as I was deeply worried about something (a symptom that turned out to be nothing). As the family chilled out in our motel, I decided to take a walk to the shops of the popular mountain town where we were staying. Using my worry as a reason (as if I ever needed one) to cheer myself with a shoeless walk, I left my flip-flops at the motel and loved the feeling of the warm sidewalk as I padded down the way toward town. Visiting a succession of shops, I found items for myself and for gifts. In one favorite shop, a clerk approvingly said she took off her shoes off in the store, but her feet got dirty from people traipsing in from the street all day, though she didn’t mind. There were a lot of tourists out strolling and shopping, and how pleasing to join that "party" barefooted.

De-Stressing

During a time when a lot of stressful things were going on (though fortunately not health-related), I wanted a chance to lighten up and to take a nice, day-off drive—and I needed at least one silly shoeless memory for that summer. Although I forget how I learned about it, I knew that there was a gift shop in a nearby community that specialized in cat-related products: stationary, refrigerator magnets, tchotchkes as well as nicer items, and also toys for cats themselves. The town was an easy drive, so I put on my jeans and shirt but not my sandals and made a peaceful road trip to the community’s small business district, which had a pleasant variety of shops.

Sure enough, the store in which I was interested had an amazing variety of feline merchandise! I tiptoed in, strolled among the displays, and bought some things. Leaving the store with my purchases, I felt the warmth of the sidewalk, like a summertime patio, and crossed the street to an antique store. It was a little junky but had a huge metal Coca-Cola sign, featuring the famous sprite character (with a bottle cap for a hat), that covered a big section of an inside wall. I wondered who would buy and have room for such a sign. Then I padded over to a couple other places, carrying my purchases from the first store.

Altogether, a peaceful and childish, afternoon walk that cheered me considerably! As always, it was a nicely mischievous feeling to be out somewhere with free feet, conducting transactions and accomplishing the day’s tasks.

Shopping Barefoot

Shopping from store to store in bare feet–browsing, standing in check-out lines, carrying shopping bags down the way—was a particularly fun and audacious thing to do on a summer day. Some of my Facebook friends are former classmates who liked to go that way to our small downtown. During the early 1980s, I even saw a cheerful, shoeless woman in high-class Westport, CT, strolling toward the town’s boutiques.

During that time period, I visited another coastal town for a summer craft fair. My fisherman sandals lay on the floorboard, and I regretted not wearing a lighter pair. So I left them behind. With my touristy camera over my shoulder, I sighed with relief as my heels made gentle thuds upon the warm sidewalks. Not unimportantly, my mind and heart were weighed down with a situation that I couldn’t yet fix, and so this simple omission of shoes was a temporary but meaningful respite from my sad emotions.

I spent a pleasant hour or so exploring the booths and shops. What a nice summertime memory, even if the walking was a little risky. I wasn’t the only eccentric. On this trip or another one, I chuckled to see a barefoot young man with his arms around two barefoot young women as they stood at a food counter at the fair.

During a visit to a southwestern community, while my wife Beth was at a conference in town, I looked forward to visiting a community’s artsy shopping district. I thought that visit to the coastal craft fair, about eight years earlier. This seemed like a nice opportunity for another exercise in pleasant silliness—that once-a-summer way to renew a sense of well-being.

Parking my car, I left my sandals inside, stepped to the street and sidewalk with a happy sigh, fed the meter, and made my way with committed feet to my first destination, a bookstore (where I bought an Annie Dillard book that I still have). Then, as I watched my toes step along the walkway, I visited other stores up and down the block for an unhurried time. They were good boutiques, offering crafts, art, jewelry, books, environment related items, and other merchandise. I had excellent luck. The textures of cool floors alternating with the sidewalk—warm like a back porch—felt delightful.

No one seemed to mind. One clerk in a rock and gem shop who gave me a strange look as I strolled around the beautiful displays (I should’ve asked first), but I did make a purchase. Toward the end of my visit, I walked down the sidewalk with my shopping bags and paused at a window display of a clothes and accessories store. A clerk, standing outside, invited me to check out their sales! So I tiptoed in and, strolling among several shoppers, I found the day’s last treasure, a purse for Beth.

Barefoot to Shakespeake

I always thought that going barefoot to a park to watch a ball game or to a county fair or a similar, grassy place would be enjoyable–and likely more comfortable than a sidewalk. You used to see a few such folks at summer events. I may have gone barefoot to a county fair in Maryland but I can’t remember if I did or only thought about it. But I once met a person who said she loved to go to the local softball games without her shoes on and she could thus relax upon the bleachers on the sunny day.

During a trip to see friends and to “chill” for a few days, as I looked for a event between visits, I noticed an upcoming, outdoor Shakespeare festival. We had been to these festivals in the past, where the seats were placed on the grass in front of the stage, in a pretty, pastoral location. The website indicated that there was no dress code, since the area was available for casual picnics beforehand. I’d not had any shoeless “adventures” for two or three summers, so I decided to take a chance.

I put on newer jeans and knit shirt and drove over. Then I padded to the gate, gave the ticket person my ticket, walked down the path to the grassy area and plastic chairs by the stage, and found a seat. "All good," as they say, and how peaceful to be attend the evening event completely barefooted, with the cool grass beneath! The play was wonderfully performed. At intermission I waded through the grass to the concession stand and got a warm pretzel, prompting a conversation with another playgoer who wondered if they were good, and who then got in line and purchased enough for the family.

Going to School

Years ago, as a grad student, I led a discussion section of a large lecture course in history. Sections like that are scheduled in any available space, and this one happened to meet in a chemistry classroom. Prominent warning signs informed students to wash their hands and keep shoes on because of the chemicals.

One student came to the section (and the lecture) barefoot, every class period, well into autumn. She wasn’t bold and outgoing, but quiet. As I recall, whenever we broke into small groups, she usually paired with a talkative student and opened up more in that setting. The classroom’s warning signs didn’t influence her style choice!

Among the numerous years I was in school, I remember going barefoot to class only one time. It was a summer course–not in a chem lab—and I didn’t really like the instructor—although in hindsight I’ve compassion for him because he was just starting out. I hope he continued to grow as a teacher. Anyway, I decided I might as well be relaxed during the two or three hour class so I tucked my sandals into my book bag.

What a pleasant memory: feeling the classroom building’s several stairs and cool hallways underfoot, watching my toes stroll and hearing the incongruous pat of my footsteps upon the college tiles, and then tuck my feet below the chair for a couple brain-hurting hours of class.

Going to Church? 

Jeremiah 2:25a reads, “Keep your feet from going unshod, and your throat from thirst.” In context, the message is sarcastic: don’t wear out your shoes and parch your throat in your eager pursuit of idol-worship. But I lightheartedly think: aren’t Bible people artistically depicted with bare feet? It must be okay as long as we’re not practicing idolatry!

Years earlier, I had a summer friend who went shoeless nearly everywhere. “I have to go barefoot!” As we walked downtown and around neighborhoods, we entered into her local church—back then, the doors were always open—and, as we circled the sanctuary upon the carpeted outer aisle, she explained the Stations of the Cross. She described a dream wherein she went to Mass without shoes on, and when she came forward for the host, the priest chided her.

Back to Work

I read a list of things a person shouldn’t do if he or she wants to be successful in a job. One was: don’t take a sick day and then return to work with nice nails. Another: keep your shoes on at work, even if they’re uncomfortable. Good advice, I’m sure.

In his essay “Going Barefoot” in his 1983 collection Hugging the Shore, John Updike writes of “the pleasant illusion of unaccountability” of being shoeless in public (for him, Martha’s Vineyard), and he’s right about both the pleasantness and the illusion.

Two or three times during my student days, I carried my sandals in my book bag when heading to the library for research. I felt super-motivated to get a lot finished as I strolled around the stacks, checked the card catalog, located books, tiptoed to the photocopier, heard the soft thump of my feet on the floor, and generally was extremely productive! A friend used to say, “I can’t think unless my feet are comfortable!” Perhaps shoelessness should be listed among the habits of highly effective people….

But few jobs would allow that, other than home employment. (Hurray for freelance writing….) Lifeguards and swimming instructors also come to mind. When we lived in Arizona, I read about a person who worked in a lookout tower in a national forest. Along with the gorgeous view, the person loved the job because it didn’t require footwear. She got dressed for work but never had to figure out which shoes to put on.

The Year’s First Barefoot Day 

Since flip-flops are so ubiquitous, even as winter wear, there’s probably less pleasure in people’s minds concerning the year’s first barefoot day—a day in early spring that’s warm enough for you to kick off your shoes after school or after work and go outside. The author Maxie Dunham wrote a book entitled Barefoot Days of the Soul (Upper Room Books, 1975), wherein he likens the freedom and joy of Christian faith with the relief one feels going barefoot outdoors after wintertime.

For several years, when we lived at a place where I regularly rode my bike, my own first-barefoot-day was the time I felt comfortable riding without shoes on. That kind of day could be in the fifties, chilly for strolling on sidewalks but fine for pushing the bicycle pedals and feeling the rushing breeze. What a welcome feeling after the winter months!

A Simple, Cheerful Thing

“No one goes barefoot anymore!” lamented an Arizona neighbor who loved going shoeless. She told me that she used to walk barefoot upon scorching sidewalks in Tucson with a beach towel. She threw the towel in front of her as she walked.

Her words reminded me of a time when Beth and I melted in the 100-plus temperatures, as we walked in D.C. Across the way, a stocky fellow trudged barefooted across the parking lot with his wife. That asphalt must’ve been terribly hot, but he betrayed no discomfort.

I cringed when a family group stood in line with us at a food stand inside a ball park. The mom, with her mom-jeans and team shirt and ball cap, wore no shoes. I worried how safe she could be, plus the grunginess of the park concourse. She needed a towel to stand and walk upon, too!

“No one goes barefoot anymore.” Fads do become quaint; the nonchalance of our younger, student days vanish; jobs and expectations change us, and we lose both a sense of balance and a sense of humor concerning ourselves, and our place in the world. It becomes difficult to let go of ego and do silly, spur-of-the-moment things.

Still, the words of Nadine Strain continue to echo, and the goodness of anticipating regrets. “I’d like to make more mistakes next time. I’d relax. I would limber up. I would be sillier than I have been this trip. I would take fewer things seriously. I would take more chances. I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers. I would eat more ice cream and less beans. I would perhaps have more actual troubles, but… fewer imaginary ones… If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall. I would go to more dances. I would ride more merry-go-rounds. I would pick more daisies.”

In the back of my mind, I think going barefoot every so often was a kind of bucket-list thing for me, a way to connect my life’s locations in a humble way, and a series of moments of being spontaneous and silly in this manner. Afterward, I could look back them on nostalgically, as my father liked to remember going hunting barefoot as a kid in the 1920s. For many of us, going barefoot has been a way to express gratitude, in a pleasingly quirky and childish way, for what these posts are actually about: our precious, everyday places and people.

(Some of this piece originally appeared, in a different form, as an essay in Springhouse, April 1988.)