The large black bell on the front lawn ringing one final time signaled the end of school and start of summer vacation. Like ants scurrying around after their dirt mound had been kicked over, all us Flamingo Street kids streamed out of school, ran back to our homes and quickly changed into play clothes.
Summer had started, and we didn’t want to miss out on even a minute of fun. After wearing shoes till the front door closed behind us just to appease our moms, we soon flung them off as we started to run and play up and down the street of Flamingo.
But not all kids thought running over carpets of green grass and soft pine straw, stomping pinecones, or even feeling the warm asphalt of Flamingo under bare feet was summertime fun. There were a few non-barefooted kids like Blabber Mouth Betsy, Magnificent Melinda, and Tattle Tale Tina who wore tennis shoes, flats, or fancy slides. And never, ever went barefooted.
Other kids were neither non-barefooted nor barefooted, like Goofy Steve and the kid we all called Booger. They only wore flip-flops, which made it hard for them to run and even harder to sneak up on anyone.
We really didn’t consider flip-flops as shoes so Goof and Booger were included into our barefooted group. Down the Street Bully Brad and his gang of two also joined in on our being barefooted by also discarding their shoes. Playing hard each day and long into every night, we called ourselves The Barefoot Boys of Summer.
Must admit, we all were tender-footed that first day. But after a couple of weeks, our feet were toughened so even the stickiest pinecone could be stomped upon without too much discomfort.
We road bikes, propelled skateboards, ran over rocks, scaled mountains of dirt, sped through woods and swam in Cripple Creek — all while barefooted.
Our worst injuries were from stubbed big toes, shards of glass, bottle caps, or soft drink pull-tabs. Yes, back-in-the-day, all canned soft drinks had a pull-tab. Usually discarded after opening, the soft drink pull-tab was identical to an adult beverage pull-tab. And thanks to Down the Street Bully Brad’s dad, those adult beverage pull-tabs littered Flamingo.
Stepping on any of the above by her four Barefoot Boys meant a trip to our Mom. She always had ample medical supplies on hand and even more so during the summer. All tears were wiped away, and then wounds were cleaned, alcohol or hydrogen peroxide poured on, foot dried, then bandaged and taped. After a snack and a Coke, we were off running barefooted once again.
The only deviation from this routine was if we stepped on a thick green briar, lodging a thorn deep into the bottom of our foot. That’s when Dad was called in to operate.
Digging out thorns was our Dad’s expertise. He always declined needles, instead reaching into his pocket to retrieve his Case three-blade folding knife, the same knife he used for cleaning fish, cutting twine, stripping wires, and carving wood.
Before beginning, Dad said the same thing, “Hold still. This is going to hurt me more than you. Here, bite on this.” That’s when he gave us a pencil. More of our pencils were bitten in two that way than any other.
Even with all the foot injuries, there’s nothing like running around outside barefooted. Sadly, the Barefoot Boys of Summer, and all the barefoot fun that went with them, are long gone. Or so I thought.
Last weekend, we held a backyard birthday party for Little One and Sweet Caroline, our two granddaughters. Attending were girls and boys from their classes. Between eating hot dogs, chips, and a two-tier dinosaur/unicorn cake, they ran around for hours chasing Will.
Will was a 4-year-old whose mom had given up trying to keep shoes on. Watching him running through the woods, effortlessly transitioning from pathways of stepping stones to grass to pine straw and back again was like watching the Barefoot Boys of Summer from long ago. By the end of the day, even our granddaughters were barefooted.
Cleaning up after the party, The Wife caught me smiling and asked why. I answered, “I see stubbed toes in our future, but I’m happy to know the Barefoot Boys and Girls of Summer are alive and well. Just to be prepared, wonder if I can still find Dad’s old Case pocket knife?”
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
