When I was a child and spent summers at my grandfather‘s farm, I was nearly always barefoot. Being barefoot for weeks on a farm meant that the bottoms of our feet (for those of you who have never tried it) became as tough as leather, and it took a very determined thorn or thistle to penetrate that thick skin.
It meant that you could walk a mile on a gravel road to get the mail without complaining. It also meant that your feet were continuously dirty, and vigorous washing each night before you go to bed was essential. Especially when your grandmother was overseeing the operation.
Part of her fastidiousness came from the fact that there are a thousand things on a farm which are moderately unpleasant but easy for a bared foot to step in. Among these are chicken poop, goose poop, duck poop, horse poop, cow poop, and sheep poop.
The remedy for those encounters was to swipe that soiled foot against a nearby patch of grass a couple of times to make it reasonably presentable and then going on with your day.
Shoes? For going into town and for cold or rainy weather. We were feral children in those days. When it came time to return to Minneapolis and rejoin the family we had to resentfully re-learn civilized behavior.
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The original house on Grandfather’s Jacobson’s farm bore more than a superficial resemblance to the ones in the television series Little Home on the Prairie. There was no electricity, meaning the only lighting was provided by candles and oil lamps. The only water available indoors was from a small hand-operated pump at the sink in the kitchen, and that was it. Heat needed in colder weather came from two sources – the big woodstove in the kitchen and a kerosene heater in the tiny living room. Upstairs bedrooms were heated by grate-covered holes in the floor that allowed warm air to flow upward and of its own accord.
All toilet facilities were provided by the privy out behind the lilac bushes. The privy was built as a two-holed structure so that one could have company if desired. Visits to this necessary building were understandably brief in Winter, and little use was made of the reading materials available until Spring arrived.
Bedrooms were small enough that only twin or standard beds could be fit into them. If you tried to insert a queen or king-sized bed into the spaces there would have been no uncovered floor to walk on and the door could not have opened inward. I’m not sure when those larger beds were invented, but there were none in any of the houses that I slept in as a child. Or young adult, for that matter.
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Summers on the farm were fly-time. There were too many barnyard buffets available to completely control them completely, but there were stopgap measures. In the house were fly-strips like the one in the photo. These were celluloid strips covered with something very sticky and toxic to the flies. You hung them from the ceiling and did not throw one away until it was pretty much filled with flies. This meant that a long string of insect corpses was in full view over the dining table at all times.
While at first they might be jarring to tender sensibilities, after a while most of us ignored them entirely.
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Saturday the local chapter of Indivisible put on a peaceful demonstration as part of a nationwide event. Ours was focussed on early voting. Robin and I operated a photo booth as our contribution to the festivities. The weather cooperated beautifully, with sunny and blue October skies and temperatures in the mid sixties. As part of the event the Indivisible membership walked half a block to the only ballot box in town and inserted our ballots.
There is so much hope in all of these proceedings. Nearly all of it is unspoken, as if we could jinx a change for the better by talking about it. There is also anger and resolve and the knowledge that our politicians have failed us so badly in the past several years that nothing can be taken for granted. If this November’s elections are successful in turning this awful tide around, it will be a new world for elected officials for a long time. We will actually expect them to do what they promise, and they are not used to being held to such a standard.
When one lives in a developing nightmare a lot of things change in one’s perspective. For me personally, I have a profound lack of trust in so many of our institutions. Actually, all of them, when it comes to governance. We have an executive branch that is so corrupt they don’t even try to hide it any more. We have a Congress where half have attached themselves to a President who is … how about unworthy in every respect? The other half sleepwalked into the present situation acting as if the wolf at the door was only a pup.
The Supreme Court has been the real shocker, for me. To have it become no more than a partisan tool, subservient to the rest of the kakistocracy … I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. I am in awe at the courage of the three honorable members, who are all women, and wonder how they face each day going to work with the Repulsive Six. Surely they must be depressed some days, saddened to their cores.
And the last thing. To have learned how large the faction of our own populace is that will accept a fascist government, even welcome it. Where do we start, even if the present elections go in a positive direction? For myself, I have to think about it as they teach in AA. You don’t look at the monstrous mess and try to make a plan for the rest of your life, which can be completely overwhelming. You deal with one day at a time. Head up and nose to the wind and out the door. Got a moral compass? Dig it out because you will need to carry it with you every darn day for a long time.
What did that guy Lao-Tse say, again? That a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step? Really good idea.
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It will be a long road forward, and an uncertain one. It will take a lot of hands and hearts and courage and being steadfast. Pronouns like we and us will have to largely replace I and me to make it work. Can we do it ? If we want to badly enough, I believe so.
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The title of today’s post is borrowed from Max Shulman’s book of the same name. He, in turn, borrowed those four words from the first two lines of the poem The Barefoot Boy, by John Greenleaf Whittier.
Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
If the great can pilfer from the great, I believe that it is no major sin when a lowly writer like myself does the same thing, especially if I admit the theft. Surely it is only a misdemeanor at that point. Don’t judge me.
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