By Bill Fullerton
Over on a web site for the blind I often infest, someone said the first day of May, in addition to being May Day and Beltane, had also been something called ‘Barefoot Day’. To this I felt compelled to reply as follows, sort of:
As for that info about May 1st also being ‘Barefoot Day’, well, let’s just say I’ve been there, done that, stepped in sticker beds, into piles of chicken shit (being three at the time I reportedly called it “chicky doo-doo”), and onto sweet gum balls (like small mace heads) plus the occasional bit of hot paving tar, broken glass shards, the odd rusty can or nail, not to mention a sharp, pointed rock or two hiding in some weeds.
That’s why, having somehow managed to reach the prime of my mid-dotage, except for my bed and bath, I always wear shoes.
Of course, I’m sure none of the cultured, sophisticated Select Stories readers ever had any similar childhood/hippie/absent-minded barefooting experiences, right?
Now here’s what Paul Harvey would call, “The rest of the story,” about a close encounter of the worst kind between my bare foot and a pile of chicken manure. Continue reading