Barefoot in the Garden

 I spent my childhood in the late sixties playing outside until dark, catching lightning bugs, riding my bike, playing tag and whiffle ball. Television was reserved for the evening, or cartoons on Saturday morning, and we had three channels to choose from. There were no electronics, no Chick-Fil-A playgrounds, no trampoline or water parks. We had the city pool where everyone was welcome. Our family didn’t take major vacations every year, maybe every five years, and those were usually connected to visiting relatives.

There were no “healthy snacks,” unless you count homemade popcorn or cookies, although watermelon and cantaloupe were in abundance during the summer. We drank Kool-Aid, and our source of water while playing outside came from the water hose. 

 

I feel blessed to have lived in this generation. My life was full and contented during these years of early childhood.

 

I helped my mom with cleaning and laundry chores, and anything else she needed me to do. She battled cancer most of those years and my help was necessary. I’m thankful for all she taught me. I knew how to manage a household before I could legally drive a car.

 

As I watched my grandchildren play outside over the weekend, these memories surfaced. There’s something about bare feet in the dirt that stirs heartfelt longings for them to experience a simple childhood.

 

They trudged through Pop Pop’s garden, following close behind him as he dug hills of potatoes. They held their produce up in the air like discovered treasure. They inspected the progress of other veggies, gathering cucumbers and squash as they meandered down the rows. Bare feet squished through the fertile soil leaving prints of ten toes. Their smiles and laughter sprang from the freedom to be in the moment, the joy of being with family while harvesting the bounty of God’s provision.

 

As they wandered out of the garden, little hands picked flowers for Gigi. Dirt-stained hands offered stems of pink and purple, happy to share the beauty of their fun evening.

 

The best memories come from experiencing the simple things. I hope they always remember meals around Gigi and Pop Pop’s table, Mule rides and the silly things we say, counting hay bales in the field, and eating popsicles until they drip red, purple, and orange goodness down their bellies. I hope they remember the prayers we pray, and the songs we sing. I hope one day when they’re grown, they will remember all the love we shared living in the country. I hope the bonds of love made with their cousins bring laughter when they reminisce about their childhood days at Pop Pop and Gigi’s house. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll feel as blessed and happy as I feel writing these words.