A watery haze
Curtains the hills in a shroud
Of grey mysteries.
Monday, May 15, 2017
My parents were raised on adjoining farms in Minnesota, but moved to the city in California after my dad joined the Marines. He joined the Marines and my parents left Minnesota to avoid the embarrassment of my older sister’s pre-marital conception. When I came along a few years later my feet never touched farm soil except for the occasional visits back to the relatives there.
And even then I don’t recall ever taking my shoes off and immersing my feet into the rich northern soil. I like shoes. I don’t like the feel of dirt on my feet. I associate dirty feet with being a country bumpkin - a hick.
But here in Panama, I’m slowly giving in to living with my feet being a bit more smudged than I’d ever thought I’d be able to tolerate.
In the states, particularly Southern California, it’s easy to walk around comfortably for months in sandals; a habit I enjoyed. I enjoy it here as well, but there’s not nearly as much pavement here and we live down a short dirt farm road. That means either giving up sandals or getting use to dirty feet once in a while. That’s another one of those small conundrums I wouldn’t have thought about before moving here.
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