During my four years between marriages, I chose to travel the world. My first trip to Hawaii had certainly wet my appetite for more. Now my two children we young adults. And I was free of my 'ex' who never traveled farther than to fish or hunt. I now felt free as a bird. Our ranch house in Covina Hills had been sold and I had moved into my Claremont apartment. Also, I had the independence of owning a successful business that afforded me travel time. So it was time to take full advantage of being free and single.
My cousin, Olive, was a very astute and trusted manager of my bridal boutique JD's mother, my lovely mother-in-law, had passed before we decided to divorce and I'd wanted no part of the division of her estate. She had left me and my children with fond memories of her loving and caring ways. I had always suggested that she should "travel to Denmark" and relive her parents childhood, but she always insisted she wanted to leave what she could to her three boys. She was always thinking of others rather than herself. Sad that virtue wasn't passed onto JD.
Anyway, I was now more than ready to travel. The first item I purchased was Europe on $10 A Day, followed by buying a sturdy backpack. I read that staying in youth hostels and pensiones were very inexpensive. However, it would be important to carry along a 'sheet-bag' sewn with both sides intact, a flap to cover a pillow and another to fold down over the top of a blanket to avoid touching anything that might have germs. So I accomplished that sewing task. The suggestion also was to lay out what clothes you wanted to take, then put half back into your closet and only take the absolutely necessary items in your backpack. This entailed a complete change of clothes plus an extra set of underwear (every night wash dirty clothes and re-pack the dry before continuing on your trek).
My biggest mistake, on that first backpacking trek, was to over pack. I decided to add a small suitcase, well not really small enough, and fortune had it that my suitcase was left behind as I caught my ride on a ship from Brindesi, Italy to Athens, Greece. The passage was an overnight sail. I ended up with two room mates, one from France and the other from Germany. None of us spoke other than our own language, so sign language became our way of communication.
As the following day was sunny and warm, ideal for sunbathing on the deck, my room mates soon realized I was stuck with only Levis and t-shirts. Quickly they outfitted me in a bikini, as each had brought along two bikinis. The top part of the bikini from the hefty German girl was my size and the bottom part of the bikini belonging to the petite French girl also fit me. We later had our photo taken, which shows the mix-match of the four bikinis on we three girls.
In return for their assist in my hour of need, I embroidered flowers on their Levis as a gift and painted their toenails blue like mine. I don't recall any suggestion of putting embroidery thread and needle in your backpack. Although we parted ways as we left the ship that evening, we did run into each other once again on one of the Greek Islands. After hugs all around, we again headed off in different directions.
The French girl and I stayed in touch for a few years, so that another trip to France during my second marriage along with my husband, gave us a chance to meet once again. By this time I had learned a little French and she had mastered the English language, so we enjoyed our conversation over tea and French pastries.
I should explain that I had bought an open-ended round trip ticket on that first backpacking trek, without any other solid plans of where, when or how to travel or when to return back to the US. It was almost three months before I returned home and that was mainly because the clothes I had packed merely sufficed the summer months and it was now October.
I had to ditch my worn out sandals for a pair of Italian men's shoes. All the women's shoes were too wide for my feet. Apparently, all the narrow women's shoes are shipped to western countries. I bought a sweatshirt to keep warm, which was my last purchase of the trip. Believe it or not, I didn't catch a cold. As my mother would've said, "No sense, no feeling!"
My last Sunday in Greece was spent in Athens Central Park sketching. I was constantly being harassed by disgusting, rude men. I would generally ignore their advances until I'd finally had enough. I stood up and threatened one of these guys very loudly and sat down again to catch my breath and cool down. Just then I noticed a nice looking young man sitting on another bench nearby. He smiled and ambled over to me. In perfect English he said, "I think you handled the situation quite well." He was a tall blond wearing a dark suit and a turtle-neck sweater. "Would you like to take a cup of tea with me? There's a cafe just at the edge of the park." "Sure, why not."
I'll tell you why not. As I looked back, I remembered he hadn't looked me directly in my eyes during our conversations in the park or at the cafe. That should have been a warning to me. "Would you like to walk over to the marble steps just across the highway?" That was the ancient arena where sporting events were held a thousand years ago. "I would love to." We walked up several steps, actually seating for those events of history and sat facing the setting sun.
Now, I had vowed to never be out after dark, and told him "I really need to catch my bus back to the hostel." Surprise! He now looked directly into my eyes as he grabbed my long hair in one hand and with his other hand started to strangle me. He was certainly stronger than me. I remembered my mother saying not to try fighting in such an instance "because you'll only excite the guy more."
Calm as I could muster in this situation, I asked, "Niko (he had told me his name earlier) do you have a sister?" "Yes. And, I hate her!" and his grip on me tightened. Just then a Greek cop had climbed over the back of the bleachers and ran down past us and Niko loosened his grip on me. I knew it was no use to try to get the cop's attention. Back then, most Greeks didn't speak English and I knew that although Niko had lived in England for awhile, he spoke fluent Greek. I did manage to scoot down a couple of steps before he reached out to grab me again. "Niko, do you have a brother?" "No, why do you ask?" He looked very strange and released me long enough for me to continue on down the steps. I knew this guy was crazy.
Next he grabbed my left arm. "Let's go back into the park. It's dark now and no one will see us." True, it was now night time and we were crossing the highway back towards the park. People who were headed towards us were hastily heading home after work. I did mange to catch the eye of one man as he passed. I said, "See you back at the hostel in a few minutes." I don't think he understood what I said, but I think Niko thought he might be remembered as having been with me.
As we approached the first park entrance path I was able to edge on through the approaching crowd. However, at the second entrance he pulled me onto a nearby bench. I took the chance to try another ploy. "Niko, I'm expected back at the hostel. That man I spoke to will surely tell everyone he saw me with this good looking blond guy and that I'll be there soon. Why don't we plan to meet right here again just after dark tomorrow night?" He looked tired and confused. He agreed and as I hurried away he was still sitting there. His last words were "I have a pain in my head." He was holding his hands over his face the last time I saw him.
Now I panicked, after the fact. I got on the wrong bus, going the wrong way. A young college aged couple were sitting near by and understood what I was trying to explain to the bus driver. They came to my aid, got the bus to let me off, ran me through back streets to another bus line and put me on board: "The driver will let you off just two blocks from your hostel." And that he did.
I ran to the hostel, exhausted, and told the manager my story. He called the Police Station and relayed to me that they were looking for a man of that description who had molested a woman in the park and might be responsible for several who had been murdered there. They wanted me to keep the date the following night with Niko. I don't think so. I left the next morning, a day before my scheduled flight back to the US.
Of course, there's much more to the story of my escape, that night at the hostel after the phone call to the police, my frantic effort to get out of Greece, my flight stalled in New York, with only a few drachmas in my pocket. The important people that I met during the confusion and my final trip to Los Angeles. Stay tuned.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
9/11/2001
Where were you on that fateful day, September 11, 2001? That will be the question repeated again and again on each anniversary. Where was I? Let me tell you, it seems like only yesterday.
I was in Kuwait just finishing my work day planning a VIP General's visit to the Arifjan, US Army site near the Saudi border. Although I had left after my nine years as a reporter for the Kuwait Arab Times newspaper, August the year before, I was hired back to Kuwait by the US Army COE to assist our nine engineers. Were we preparing for the 2003 invasion of Iraq? The nine engineers had already completed their work on the Qatar US Airforce Base, which became the strategic headquarters for that upcoming invasion by the US Military in 2003. Remember that initial bombing Iraq deemed "Shock and Awe?"
Here's how I first knew of the disaster in New York. The sun was just going down in the Kuwaiti desert. I was working late in order to complete the itinerary for another general's escorted tour. So many military VIPS wanted their chance to view our progress on the site. A side trip to Kuwait. This was always a major disruption of our regular work activities. The tour plan had to be completed. It was necessary for visitors to be escorted every step of the way, since we were all aware of unexploded devices. This meant driving only in tracks left earlier by an EOD vehicle for safety reasons. At least once a week you would hear an explosion of a discovered personnel or tank mine by a military EOD contingent on site to dispose of ordinance by controlled explosion. Very nerve wracking at times.
My boss, the head engineer, was working with me to complete our task. We were the only Americans left at the trailer offices, along with two Egyptian guards who had already retired to their trailer for the evening. We were just finishing up the last details, when he received a phone call from his wife who worked out at Camp Doha. She had just heard that a plane had crashed into one of the Towers in New York City. He put down the phone and told me what had happened. "She heard it may be just a movie short put on the news as a hoax." So until a second phone call we weren't that concerned. The phone rang again. This time his wife reported a second plane had just crashed into the second Tower. This time there was panic in her voice and I'll always remember the expression of shock on my boss's face when he took that call.
We both froze for a moment. Then he said, "We better finish this up quickly and head on out. Apparently, this has been a terrorist attack on our country." We gathered up the paperwork which had been sorted into the various folders for the VIPs and our engineers that would conduct a tour the next day at our work site. "So, we're finished with our task. Probably the General's visit will be canceled now since we've been attacked. Anyway, our job is done. We'd better head out now before dark."
Just as we were leaving for our Prado vehicles, his wife called again on his cell phone. She explained that no one was now allowed to leave Doha Base. Deciding it was pretty serious, since Iraq was just across the border and suspected of having been involved in the attack, he and I began our 'phone chain' calling each of the other eight engineers who had left earlier. We each called the first one on our list by cell phone and told them to 'pass the word' and told them to 'lock down' their apartments (each had a well secured 2nd floor apartment) and stay there until further notice. As I opened the door to my SUV, he said: "Follow close behind me and let's stay in contact with our cell phones until we get back on the paved road." After a bumpy ride over our one and only way out of the site, it was already night fall by the time we reached the Kuwait Coast Highway. Once home we checked with one another to make sure everyone was safe and secure.
Safe and secure? I didn't have engineer status, so I lived in a 5th floor apartment, far from an American complex and without any real security. Of course, I didn't have access to any 'secret' information either, because our computers had been installed by the US Military and mine could not access the information that might have been valuable to our enemy, whoever that might have been at the time, probably mostly concerned about Iraq. You see, the secure apartments were no more than two floors off the ground and were installed with escape ladders at a window. I guess my only escape would've been to dash down the only stairwell or jump off my balcony as the elevator was usually out of commission. Go figure.
By the time I safely reached my apartment and turned on the local television news channel, there was a video of the Towers burning. Then I watched in absolute disbelief and horror as both Towers imploded to the earth. The audio with the video was saying: "people are jumping to their deaths." I sat on my sofa in total fear and my heart was broken realizing the many families that were literally being torn apart by this horrible event. I turned off the television and sat in the dark for hours praying. There was nothing else I could do.
It was the next day before I received follow up phone calls from my colleagues. Family members back in the US later explained it was impossible to get a call through to Kuwait. I had to rely on US Military information over the next couple of days and everything seemed to be getting worse and no one really had a definitive answer about the situation. Did I know anyone who worked in the Towers? No. However, they were my fellow Americans and I wondered if this meant another World War. I imagined that this could be only the beginning of the end. Yes, I remember exactly where I was September 11, 2001.
I was in Kuwait just finishing my work day planning a VIP General's visit to the Arifjan, US Army site near the Saudi border. Although I had left after my nine years as a reporter for the Kuwait Arab Times newspaper, August the year before, I was hired back to Kuwait by the US Army COE to assist our nine engineers. Were we preparing for the 2003 invasion of Iraq? The nine engineers had already completed their work on the Qatar US Airforce Base, which became the strategic headquarters for that upcoming invasion by the US Military in 2003. Remember that initial bombing Iraq deemed "Shock and Awe?"
Here's how I first knew of the disaster in New York. The sun was just going down in the Kuwaiti desert. I was working late in order to complete the itinerary for another general's escorted tour. So many military VIPS wanted their chance to view our progress on the site. A side trip to Kuwait. This was always a major disruption of our regular work activities. The tour plan had to be completed. It was necessary for visitors to be escorted every step of the way, since we were all aware of unexploded devices. This meant driving only in tracks left earlier by an EOD vehicle for safety reasons. At least once a week you would hear an explosion of a discovered personnel or tank mine by a military EOD contingent on site to dispose of ordinance by controlled explosion. Very nerve wracking at times.
My boss, the head engineer, was working with me to complete our task. We were the only Americans left at the trailer offices, along with two Egyptian guards who had already retired to their trailer for the evening. We were just finishing up the last details, when he received a phone call from his wife who worked out at Camp Doha. She had just heard that a plane had crashed into one of the Towers in New York City. He put down the phone and told me what had happened. "She heard it may be just a movie short put on the news as a hoax." So until a second phone call we weren't that concerned. The phone rang again. This time his wife reported a second plane had just crashed into the second Tower. This time there was panic in her voice and I'll always remember the expression of shock on my boss's face when he took that call.
We both froze for a moment. Then he said, "We better finish this up quickly and head on out. Apparently, this has been a terrorist attack on our country." We gathered up the paperwork which had been sorted into the various folders for the VIPs and our engineers that would conduct a tour the next day at our work site. "So, we're finished with our task. Probably the General's visit will be canceled now since we've been attacked. Anyway, our job is done. We'd better head out now before dark."
Just as we were leaving for our Prado vehicles, his wife called again on his cell phone. She explained that no one was now allowed to leave Doha Base. Deciding it was pretty serious, since Iraq was just across the border and suspected of having been involved in the attack, he and I began our 'phone chain' calling each of the other eight engineers who had left earlier. We each called the first one on our list by cell phone and told them to 'pass the word' and told them to 'lock down' their apartments (each had a well secured 2nd floor apartment) and stay there until further notice. As I opened the door to my SUV, he said: "Follow close behind me and let's stay in contact with our cell phones until we get back on the paved road." After a bumpy ride over our one and only way out of the site, it was already night fall by the time we reached the Kuwait Coast Highway. Once home we checked with one another to make sure everyone was safe and secure.
Safe and secure? I didn't have engineer status, so I lived in a 5th floor apartment, far from an American complex and without any real security. Of course, I didn't have access to any 'secret' information either, because our computers had been installed by the US Military and mine could not access the information that might have been valuable to our enemy, whoever that might have been at the time, probably mostly concerned about Iraq. You see, the secure apartments were no more than two floors off the ground and were installed with escape ladders at a window. I guess my only escape would've been to dash down the only stairwell or jump off my balcony as the elevator was usually out of commission. Go figure.
By the time I safely reached my apartment and turned on the local television news channel, there was a video of the Towers burning. Then I watched in absolute disbelief and horror as both Towers imploded to the earth. The audio with the video was saying: "people are jumping to their deaths." I sat on my sofa in total fear and my heart was broken realizing the many families that were literally being torn apart by this horrible event. I turned off the television and sat in the dark for hours praying. There was nothing else I could do.
It was the next day before I received follow up phone calls from my colleagues. Family members back in the US later explained it was impossible to get a call through to Kuwait. I had to rely on US Military information over the next couple of days and everything seemed to be getting worse and no one really had a definitive answer about the situation. Did I know anyone who worked in the Towers? No. However, they were my fellow Americans and I wondered if this meant another World War. I imagined that this could be only the beginning of the end. Yes, I remember exactly where I was September 11, 2001.
Custer's Folly
'Custer's Last Stand' was taught way back in grammar school showing General Custer as a true American hero and the Indians as the bad guys. I had listened to many of Grandfather's stories of his younger days trading with the Indians, first from a trading post he helped establish in Wyoming. Later he would be away for up to three months riding horseback to Indian camps after getting married and settling in Idaho.
Here Grandfather and his wife Sarah ran a 'general store/ferry crossing/half-way house/post office' from a small farm on the Snake River. Of course, the latter was his idea of "settling down as a husband and father" and Grandmother was often left to raise her brood which consisted of: Hubert, Lila, John, Mae (the only surviving triplet, the first was a boy still-born, and the second an identical girl who died at the age of one due to Whooping Cough), then Helen, Clarence (my father) and lastly Dwight Jr.
Remember, this story is about Custer's folly the way my Grandfather told it to me. "Custer was determined to be a hero and therefore planned the battle of 'Little Bighorn' against the Indians. I knew of both Indian Chiefs, Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull and neither had a desire to fight General Custer and his battalion. Crazy Horse personally sent that message.
I guess it boiled down to the fact that if these tribes were forced to battle Custer they had no choice but to retaliate, and retaliate they did. It was a slaughter. The history books have tried to show the General as a hero. You see, Custer had anticipated his 'heroic action' making him a candidate for the Presidency of the United Stated. He was more of an egotist, a young General with big ideas."
I looked forward to weekends when I could sit at my grandparents' feet and listen to the stories they spun. Over time I have had proof that they never lied to me, only repeating their connection to life as it was happening. This story about Custer was of great interest to me and I could hardly wait to retell the story to my teacher and classmates. I was sure they would appreciate hearing the truth.
Monday's school day seemed to arrive slower than usual. I believe I skipped all the mile to school that morning not even scuffing the toes of my Buster Brown shoes. Of course I had to sit at my desk once I reached the classroom and wait until after roll call to break the news that our history book was all wrong about 'Custer's Last Stand.'
Finally, it was time. I raised my hand. "You may be excused to go to the bathroom, but hurry back," was my answer. "No, I have something to tell everyone in this classroom." She sighed and then asked what it was about. I told her that my Grandfather had known Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. She looked a bit skeptical, but let me get up in front of the class to tell my story.
Well, when I got to the part that Custer really wasn't a hero at all she quickly stopped me in my tracks and asked me to "sit down." Then she proceeded to explain to my fellow classmates that probably my Grandfather "had just made up a story to entertain Jean, sort of like a fairy tale." I was angry because she didn't believe the story to be true, also disappointed that my classmates didn't believe my story either. My entire day was absolutely ruined. I remember that I refused to play at recess and none of my friends bothered to sit on the bench with me. I was an outcast because of my 'far fetched' tale.
A more recent re-writing of the history, of the battle of 'Little Bighorn,' shows that Grandfather was truthful in correcting my history book way back then. Makes me appreciate the stories that my grandparents took the time to relate to me. Those were the days before television, when radio allowed children to imagine pictures in our own minds, the days when we were happy to play 'kick-the-can' or 'mother-may-I?' with the neighborhood kids, in the street with our parents watching from their porch when all cars were already parked safely in driveways.
There are many more stories that I will enjoy passing on to my readers. Today, grandchildren have other interests than story telling by their grandparents.
Here Grandfather and his wife Sarah ran a 'general store/ferry crossing/half-way house/post office' from a small farm on the Snake River. Of course, the latter was his idea of "settling down as a husband and father" and Grandmother was often left to raise her brood which consisted of: Hubert, Lila, John, Mae (the only surviving triplet, the first was a boy still-born, and the second an identical girl who died at the age of one due to Whooping Cough), then Helen, Clarence (my father) and lastly Dwight Jr.
Remember, this story is about Custer's folly the way my Grandfather told it to me. "Custer was determined to be a hero and therefore planned the battle of 'Little Bighorn' against the Indians. I knew of both Indian Chiefs, Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull and neither had a desire to fight General Custer and his battalion. Crazy Horse personally sent that message.
I guess it boiled down to the fact that if these tribes were forced to battle Custer they had no choice but to retaliate, and retaliate they did. It was a slaughter. The history books have tried to show the General as a hero. You see, Custer had anticipated his 'heroic action' making him a candidate for the Presidency of the United Stated. He was more of an egotist, a young General with big ideas."
I looked forward to weekends when I could sit at my grandparents' feet and listen to the stories they spun. Over time I have had proof that they never lied to me, only repeating their connection to life as it was happening. This story about Custer was of great interest to me and I could hardly wait to retell the story to my teacher and classmates. I was sure they would appreciate hearing the truth.
Monday's school day seemed to arrive slower than usual. I believe I skipped all the mile to school that morning not even scuffing the toes of my Buster Brown shoes. Of course I had to sit at my desk once I reached the classroom and wait until after roll call to break the news that our history book was all wrong about 'Custer's Last Stand.'
Finally, it was time. I raised my hand. "You may be excused to go to the bathroom, but hurry back," was my answer. "No, I have something to tell everyone in this classroom." She sighed and then asked what it was about. I told her that my Grandfather had known Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. She looked a bit skeptical, but let me get up in front of the class to tell my story.
Well, when I got to the part that Custer really wasn't a hero at all she quickly stopped me in my tracks and asked me to "sit down." Then she proceeded to explain to my fellow classmates that probably my Grandfather "had just made up a story to entertain Jean, sort of like a fairy tale." I was angry because she didn't believe the story to be true, also disappointed that my classmates didn't believe my story either. My entire day was absolutely ruined. I remember that I refused to play at recess and none of my friends bothered to sit on the bench with me. I was an outcast because of my 'far fetched' tale.
A more recent re-writing of the history, of the battle of 'Little Bighorn,' shows that Grandfather was truthful in correcting my history book way back then. Makes me appreciate the stories that my grandparents took the time to relate to me. Those were the days before television, when radio allowed children to imagine pictures in our own minds, the days when we were happy to play 'kick-the-can' or 'mother-may-I?' with the neighborhood kids, in the street with our parents watching from their porch when all cars were already parked safely in driveways.
There are many more stories that I will enjoy passing on to my readers. Today, grandchildren have other interests than story telling by their grandparents.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Barefoot
As I write this blog, as usual I am barefoot with just the soft carpet under my feet and three cats here and there close by: Mr Larry, Lady Sabrina and Sir Chester. I have to take time out every now and then to pet the one nearest at the moment. Mr Larry expects a light foot rub along his back, but only just for the few seconds he allows for such. So, bare feet serves me and the cats quite well.
My earliest realization that going barefoot can sometimes be a little dangerous was at the age of three in the front yard of the Sixth Street house where I began life here on earth. It seems I was running, as usual, down the walkway and stepped on a bumblebee. Needless to say, before I stepped too hard, the bee retaliated with a nasty sting. Father was working in the flowerbed nearby so he picked me up and carried me in to Mother who adeptly removed the stinger with tweezers, "Just think of how much the bee was hurt. You must look where you're going young lady." You'd think I would've learned my lesson early, but obviously not. Most of my foibles are because of being feet first, apparently not using my head first.
As earlier mentioned in my blog about falling so many times throughout the years, you may have surmised that this lack of grace could very well result in stubbed toes (yep) and even a couple of torn out toenails (yuk). Think of the amount of money I would've saved had I worn shoes all my life without the constant need to keep up my pedicure. Think of all the bottles of nail polish purchased, the color du jour. Funny, I generally only apply clear polish to my cut-short fingernails, but have sported such hues as green, purple or blue on toenails on several occasions.
Father used to tease saying: "You're just a hillbilly at heart." And, I didn't mind at all since going barefoot felt absolutely divine. Probably, my biggest mistake was the Monday I hid my Buster Brown (boy shoes) under a bush on the way to Hamilton Primary School in Pomona. I was in the third grade and many of my Mexican friends didn't even own shoes so it seemed perfectly alright for me to also go barefoot to school. And , the teacher didn't say a word about it to any of us.
This routine went on for several days. I would retrieve my shoes and socks from under the bush on the way home so my parents were none the wiser. Well, on one Friday one of my shoes was missing from under that bush, not anywhere in sight. Both socks were in the dirt near by. Probably a dog had run off with the shoe and no doubt gave it a good chew in the process. So, I barefooted my way home over the dirt paths, onto the sidewalk and across Fifth Avenue with the Crossing Guard: "Where are your shoes, missy?" "I don't have any shoes," was my reply and I hurried the rest of the way home.
Now, new shoes were bought only when I had outgrown the old ones. Father always measured a thumb's distance between my toes and the end of the shoe when they were bought, so obviously the Buster Brown's were meant to last the entire school year. I was not allowed to wear my Easter Sunday shoes to school so obviously I was in big trouble. Remember, this was still the fallout from The Great Depression and the purpose of Father buying boy's shoes was because the soles were thicker and no matter how much I deliberately scuffed the toes when walking, the shoes were polished every Saturday ready for the next school week. I knew I had no way out of this one.
Little did I know that during the day a lady from the Salvation Army had stopped by my house to offer "shoes for your little girl." Mother was horrified and declared: "You must have my little girl confused with someone else." And that was that. Now that I had confessed what happened the incident made sense regarding the offer of free shoes. I was sent to bed early that night and told: "Tomorrow we'll buy you another pair of Buster Brown shoes and you will wear them to school every day and not leave them under a bush." So much for going to school barefoot.
I still prefer going barefoot. or at the most wearing sandals, anytime of the year in fact. Although my feet often feel cold to the touch, apparently they're too far from my head to be of any concern. Of course the bummer is having to keep my heels smooth which could be prevented with shoes and socks no doubt. Oh well, it's worth the effort in order to continue going barefoot, or almost barefoot. And, I might add that as a Senior Citizen I have very healthy feet, no foot problems, probably the youngest looking feet in my age group. Go figure.
My earliest realization that going barefoot can sometimes be a little dangerous was at the age of three in the front yard of the Sixth Street house where I began life here on earth. It seems I was running, as usual, down the walkway and stepped on a bumblebee. Needless to say, before I stepped too hard, the bee retaliated with a nasty sting. Father was working in the flowerbed nearby so he picked me up and carried me in to Mother who adeptly removed the stinger with tweezers, "Just think of how much the bee was hurt. You must look where you're going young lady." You'd think I would've learned my lesson early, but obviously not. Most of my foibles are because of being feet first, apparently not using my head first.
As earlier mentioned in my blog about falling so many times throughout the years, you may have surmised that this lack of grace could very well result in stubbed toes (yep) and even a couple of torn out toenails (yuk). Think of the amount of money I would've saved had I worn shoes all my life without the constant need to keep up my pedicure. Think of all the bottles of nail polish purchased, the color du jour. Funny, I generally only apply clear polish to my cut-short fingernails, but have sported such hues as green, purple or blue on toenails on several occasions.
Father used to tease saying: "You're just a hillbilly at heart." And, I didn't mind at all since going barefoot felt absolutely divine. Probably, my biggest mistake was the Monday I hid my Buster Brown (boy shoes) under a bush on the way to Hamilton Primary School in Pomona. I was in the third grade and many of my Mexican friends didn't even own shoes so it seemed perfectly alright for me to also go barefoot to school. And , the teacher didn't say a word about it to any of us.
This routine went on for several days. I would retrieve my shoes and socks from under the bush on the way home so my parents were none the wiser. Well, on one Friday one of my shoes was missing from under that bush, not anywhere in sight. Both socks were in the dirt near by. Probably a dog had run off with the shoe and no doubt gave it a good chew in the process. So, I barefooted my way home over the dirt paths, onto the sidewalk and across Fifth Avenue with the Crossing Guard: "Where are your shoes, missy?" "I don't have any shoes," was my reply and I hurried the rest of the way home.
Now, new shoes were bought only when I had outgrown the old ones. Father always measured a thumb's distance between my toes and the end of the shoe when they were bought, so obviously the Buster Brown's were meant to last the entire school year. I was not allowed to wear my Easter Sunday shoes to school so obviously I was in big trouble. Remember, this was still the fallout from The Great Depression and the purpose of Father buying boy's shoes was because the soles were thicker and no matter how much I deliberately scuffed the toes when walking, the shoes were polished every Saturday ready for the next school week. I knew I had no way out of this one.
Little did I know that during the day a lady from the Salvation Army had stopped by my house to offer "shoes for your little girl." Mother was horrified and declared: "You must have my little girl confused with someone else." And that was that. Now that I had confessed what happened the incident made sense regarding the offer of free shoes. I was sent to bed early that night and told: "Tomorrow we'll buy you another pair of Buster Brown shoes and you will wear them to school every day and not leave them under a bush." So much for going to school barefoot.
I still prefer going barefoot. or at the most wearing sandals, anytime of the year in fact. Although my feet often feel cold to the touch, apparently they're too far from my head to be of any concern. Of course the bummer is having to keep my heels smooth which could be prevented with shoes and socks no doubt. Oh well, it's worth the effort in order to continue going barefoot, or almost barefoot. And, I might add that as a Senior Citizen I have very healthy feet, no foot problems, probably the youngest looking feet in my age group. Go figure.
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