To the small boy from the ranching family, they were a sign
of oppression.
And their absence?
Freedom.
Maybe I should explain . . .
During the 1930s, in Glenwood, Alberta, there were many
families who did without.
Oh, they had food to eat and a roof over their heads, but
there were things they simply did not have.
Things like shoes.
Their absence was a sure sign of the family’s poverty.
But to six-year old Mark (my Dad) those boys who got to come
to school shoeless were free.
He dreamed of enjoying the same freedom.
Daily, he begged his mother to let him walk to school
unhampered by his sturdy, leather shoes and hand-knitted socks.
And daily, she told him he would be wearing said shoes and
socks.
And Moms always win.
One warm, spring day, he got a brilliant idea. He would circumvent
his local law enforcement.
A block from home, he sat down and pulled off the hated footwear
with accompanying woolen socks.
And left them in a heap beside a post.
While he was at it, he decided to lose the equally oppressive
jacket and cap.
Hanging the latter on the same post.
Happily, he skipped off barefoot and unfettered to school.
Later, after a day spent luxuriating in his freedom, he
returned to the post.
Only to find it bare and rather shoeless.
Frantic, he looked around.
Nary a jacket, cap, shoe or sock in sight.
In a panic, he ran home, creating scenarios in his head to
explain their absence.
But when he stepped inside the front door he discovered, to
his relief, that all of his accoutrements were there. Shoes and socks neatly
sitting where they should be and jacket and cap on their hook by the door.
All had been returned earlier by a helpful neighbour who had
seen and recognized.
Relieved, he turned.
To see his mother, arms folded, standing beside him.
Uh-oh.
Dad learned that freedom comes at a cost.
And that children simply don’t see things the way adults do.
