For a kid growing up in the rural South.
Shoes were often a nuance.  Summer was the 
time of your feet – sand spurs – and no school.

My dad tilling the family garden was a
Spring ritual that signaled summer, and no
Shoes was close by.  Norman Rockwell could 
not have painted a more rural American scene.
For the  first time since the previous year the
ground was broken for the new year – the tractor
wheezed and coughed as the earth resisted the
plow – but surrender finally happened.

As soon as the field
plowed into cool, black dust
still clumped together – a nod from Mom
gave my brother and I permission to
dump our shoes and run barefoot down
the freshly plowed field.

Cool black dirt squished between our 
Toes and as we officially welcomed the new 
Season.