All We Have to Do is Open the Doors
My earliest memories are of playing outdoors and barefoot. I remember walking to the end of my driveway, a concrete slab that held warmth, but not heat, stepping gingerly onto the blazing asphalt street, running on my tippy toes to the other side, then stepping thankfully into the cool of a neighbor's lawn where I slowed down to let my soles be soothed by the tickle of grassy blades. You had to watch out for "stickers," which is what we called the thorny blackberry rhizomes that encroached into even the best maintained lawns. Stepping on a pinecone was more painful, but avoiding them was simply a matter of keeping an eye out, while the only real defense against the camouflaged stickers was to develop a nice, thick callous on the bottoms of our feet.
Mud oozing between our toes.
Sand eroding from beneath our feet as a wave draws back from the beach.
The slippery, weedy bottom of a road side drainage ditch.
The rough security of granite as we grip it with our toes.
Speaking at CONTINUE READING: Teacher Tom: All We Have to Do is Open the Doors
