Monday's Musings

Country Feet

He inspects the bottom of my feet, cautiously touching the rough bunyans and calloused soles.  I’m pleased with myself because I didn’t wear my stinky shoes today, a lesson learned at the last dermatologist visit.  Yet, he seems bothered by my feet and spends entirely too long touching them.  Such exposure - this full body melanoma check and I’m ready for him to stand up straight and stop staring at my feet.  “Your feet have quite a few calluses. Did you have an injury to your foot?”  His face is all concern.

Well let’s see.  Is walking around a dairy farm, on gravel roads considered an injury?  Is climbing trees barefoot, gripping the limbs with my toes an offense?  Pedaling a bike barefoot?  Walking across grass, acorns, pebbles, pine needles to retrieve the mail? 

“No, no,” I respond.  “Just due for a pedicure,”  I say lightheartedly.  I look him in the eye knowing full well I will not be getting a pedicure anytime soon.  They’re expensive and I would rather sit in a coffee shop and read a book without fearing it will fall into a tub of water.

I recount the story to my husband later that night and we laugh about the doctor’s concern.  “Did you tell him you’re a country girl?”  We laugh again and I glance down at his feet.  Feet of a bare chested little boy standing beside his brother, painted with mud head to toe.  Indians roaming the country land in nothing but their underwear.  Sword fights with cacti.  Territories marked off by trees.  Hours upon hours of freedom.  Creativity alive.

Now firmly planted in the “city” I try to regain the feel of grass underfoot and frequently walk down to the mailbox barefoot.  My children accompany me, also sans shoes.  I’m sure others disapprove.  They might step on glass or a stickerburr or a bug.  OR they might feel the joy of fresh, cool mud between the toes, slippery grass beneath their soles, rough pavement building up tolerance. 

I like to tell the story of my dermatologist visit to my mother and grandparents.  They understand the significance and laugh along with me.  But underneath that laughter is pride.  I’m glad my feet are rough to the touch, calloused, hardened in use.  They’re a symbol of my freedom, my childhood joy, my triumph through pain, my heritage.  For you see, in my heart I’m a proud country girl and my feet speak of this truth.