Shoeless

 I can walk barefoot if I please on the worn-down dirt road my father walked. He took away my shoes at an early age, encouraging me to feel the dirt on my bare feet, which gave me a sense of belonging to the earth. I would catch him laughing as I jumped up and down, stepping on a small stone or a hardened piece of cow dung. "You'll get used to it, son," he’d say. "You have to toughen those feet up."

My entire family walked barefoot while doing chores that didn’t require machinery, and I have to admit it was soothing on my feet. Mom would always remind us to wash off the dirt before coming inside, so we’d find a mud puddle and rinse it all away.

On Sundays, we went to church, where we were made to wear shoes that felt tight and cumbersome. When the service was over, we would take off our shoes and sling them over our shoulders as we ran barefoot all the way back to the farm.

I remember one time when Dad put a match to his foot while we watched in horror, believing he would burn himself. But his feet, hardened by years of going shoeless, felt nothing. Mom always said that if she caught any of us doing what Dad did, we’d be in serious trouble.

I guess I can say I come from a long line of people who are often seen as crazy, especially when they're shoeless. But unless you’ve tried it, you’ll never understand the feeling of the dirt between your toes and how it connects you to the earth in a small way. Now my kids run barefoot through the cornfields or a valley of wildflowers, letting the energy of the ground embrace them from head to toe, while a pile of boots and shoes remains on the porch, waiting to be called. 

Mike 2025