On a Summer Afternoon's Walk

Less than an hour before I got off work today, the sky darkened with the suggestion of rain, but the Weather Channel’s online 10% chance of precipitation left me in some doubt it would come.  Contrary to expectations, we were soon blessed with rain, which first sprinkled down softly and quickly intensified to a heavy drum upon the roof.  I approached my building’s glass entrance, praying thanks for this brief break in the drought and feeling thrilled by nature’s power.   A brisk wind lashed the leaves on the trees and drove the rain in sheets here and there in a delightful, wild beauty.  

After gazing several long moments, I returned with reluctance to my desk.  When next I glanced back, I noticed the rain had tapered away.  Minutes later, it still lightly sprinkled as the sun brightened the landscape—a juxtaposition that I never tire of.  In the sun's bright light, the wet bricks outside our doors gleamed as if someone had covered them with a huge, wrinkled sheet of plastic wrap.  Seeing the wet, I realized that, for the first time this hot, hot summer, the sidewalks that so easily soaked up the blazing sun's heat would, for a time, be cooled.  As a plan formed in my mind, I looked forward to getting off work.

A half hour later when I locked up the building, the bricks and pavement had mostly dried except for intermittent puddles.  I clocked out and began my half-hour walk home, anticipating the moment I left the campus sidewalks, when I felt free to remove my sandals.  (It didn’t seem proper, somehow, to be barefooted “at work.”)  And so I proceeded—my purse on one shoulder and my shoes dangling from my opposite hand.   The sidewalk felt blessedly warm after our building’s wintery AC, and the rain, indeed, kept it from scorching my soles. 

Enjoying the shade of the ubiquitous elms, oaks, and maples lining 12^th Street, I stepped with care around the sharper-looking stones and twigs, avoiding spiders, ants, and worms along the way.  Gravel couldn’t always be avoided; I crossed it gingerly or normally depending how fine and flat it lay.  I didn’t bother avoiding the puddles.  Ah!  The first time I stepped in a puddle, I felt a delighted shock at its warmth, having expected the chilly puddles of spring rains.  An obscure pleasure swiftly followed my surprise.  As I walked puddle-to-puddle, I wondered if I simply enjoyed the freedom from shoes or the child-like preference for tactile exploration.  Was it nostalgia for days of puddle-play as a child?  Perhaps I just liked throwing social expectations for adulthood—or a business-attired working woman—aside.  I realized a few blocks along that I walked with a bemused smile on my face.

It was around then that I started composing this blog in my head.  Between mental editing and additions, I also wondered if someone passing by would look on me peculiarly or assume my sandals hurt my feet.  I didn’t mind what they thought.  If anyone stopped me to inquire, I planned to wave cheerfully and assure them I was enjoying myself, but no one did.  Farther along the way, I contemplated the relatively silky texture of smooth concrete compared with the array of weather-roughened pavement, gravel, and bricks I traversed. 

The various dangers beneath my feet and the bright sun that struck my eyes whenever I left the leafy protection of the beautiful shade trees encouraged me to keep my eyes low as I traveled west.  When I turned south, my eyes were freed to look around more.   Someone had set a jar of sun tea on their porch to brew.  Beside the steps of another house, a blue-and-silver pinwheel whirled now and again in the inconstant breeze.  People sat on porches and puddles continued to delight and cool my feet on the increasing stretches of un-shaded, sunbaked concrete.  Cicada song droned near and far, a friendly background music for my journey. 

Too soon, I crossed over the street to our alley.  Some parents were trying to load their very young children into their car and didn’t respond to my shy greeting.  When I was nearly home, a black driver in a van drove slowly past me and couldn’t help splashing water across the backs of my legs and pants.  He braked and apologized profusely through his partially-lowered window, but I grinned and waved it off, saying, “I’m fine!  I don’t mind!”  And I didn't, for despite the initial shock, it felt nice, and in a few more steps, I was on the sidewalk approaching our back door.   

As I fetched my keys from my purse, I spotted a feral cat—one of several I’d been feeding lately—bound into a neighbor's fenced yard.  I picked up a wet, wind-blown, and flattened potato chip bag near where she'd been.  Juggling my burdens to apply my keys to the locks, I went in where I carefully deposited my shoes on the floor and purse on the kitchen table—not the other way around as I nearly did—and threw away the litter.  I snagged our bag of cat food and returned outside.  I took a moment to drain the water from around the few water-gorged pieces left in the bowl, and then poured drier food on top in hopes that the cat would return to finish her meal.  I re-entered the house to wash my feet and start dinner, feeling well-satisfied with my barefoot walk.