On June 3rd, 2025, my neighbor and I walked around the block, looking for the fire trucks that we had seen. The trucks had just passed the “hot corner” intersection of East St Joseph Street and North Hawthorne Lane; the sirens were not blaring, but a bright red spiral of lights bounced off the landscape. As a block captain of a neighborhood watch group, Karen Davis takes seriously the monitoring of and reporting on, the events in the ‘hood that might be of interest or concern to us. As for me, I am just nebby. (Urban Dictionary defines “nebby” as slang from Pittsburgh that means “nosy.”) Karen was barefoot, which is not unusual. I was shod, as my bare feet require a finished floor. The previous day, I was on the phone with a friend when I saw two young men running North on Hawthorne; one of them was barefoot, and I commented to my friend that I had seen another runner on the street who was also, pounding the asphalt with his bare feet. Barefootin’ seems to be a thing.
As Karen and I strolled south on Hawthorne Lane, I commented to her that her preferred footwear — nothing — reminded me of the Ethiopian marathon runner, Abebe Bikila, who was known for running barefoot, and who won the 1960 summer Olympics in Rome while doing so. I kept glancing at her feet as we neared the intersection of 9th Street; we scanned for the presence of fire engines, then turned East. Each stone on the pavement made me painfully aware of its presence, and with my every grimace, I glanced at Karen’s feet. She seemed not to know that the pebbles of 9th Street were out for blood. I thought again, of some school-aged runners that I have seen pounding the pavement toward Ellenberger Park. One of the pack was – yes – barefoot, and I anxiously awaited the return run, expecting to see blood flying from torn feet. But no: The naked feet slapped onward, seemingly none the worse for wear.
In my first year in high school, Mr. Fisher’s gym class would “run the triangle,” which meant that we ran in the basement of our triangular-shaped school. I could not yet afford what we called “tennis shoes,” so I ran on the cement in my bare feet. I did not enjoy that experience. When I did get some running shoes, I developed a horrendous foot odor, which made me keep the shoes on, except when retiring for the night. (Or the day, when I worked nights.) But my foot hygiene improved, as did my income, so I started to buy lots of shoes. And I kept them on, except for when I was going to the beach or the bath.
In Wilson Pickett’s 1966 song, “Barefootin’” he encourages people to “take off your shoes and pat your feet,” and “(bets) you can barefoot all night long.” And Chris Young sings about a “Barefoot blue jean night.” And I sing out, “Nope! No, no, no.” I’m keeping my shoes on.
As Karen and I wended our way north on Downey Avenue, we still had not seen evidence of a fire, nor the fire trucks that had drawn us from the house. The pebbles of East St. Joseph Street were poking through the soles of my shoes, but when I glanced down at Karen’s feet, she seemed not to notice the rubble. Just as do the runners of both today and yesteryear’s Olympic fame, she does not mind barefootin’. But my position is nakedly clear:
I’m keeping my shoes on.
cjon3acd@att.net