Jason says I'm crazy. He says I have hippie feet. "What's that?" I ask, wondering if it's good or bad. Jason replies "It means they're calloused and permanently dirty on the bottom." I sigh, looking down despondently at my hippie feet.

He's right; shoes have never been a friend on mine. Oh sure, I wear them in the winter, and I have far more pairs than I'll ever need. But summer is about freedom, that liberation that only children and the young at heart can truly feel. It's about floppy hats, riding bikes, skipping rocks, lamenting the day school is back in session, and running after the ice cream truck.in your bare feet. I still live for the summer; I guess I'm young at heart. Some things just feel right, sand and grass between your toes, hopping from one shady spot to the next, avoiding the searing hot blacktop, and the occasional pointy rock which breaks your stride.

I long for the days of sprinklers and slip-n-slides. My days of recklessly hurling my body down wet plastic are long gone, replaced by the constant fears of getting hurt, incurring more medical bills, and looking foolish. If only I could have another day, I'd get a running start and belly flop onto my sunny yellow slip-n-slide, careening out of control, squealing with delight, and thoroughly enjoy the full 5 seconds it lasted, etching it into my memory so it lasts forever.

Children are lucky like that; they escape the reality of the world for all too brief a time, eventually turning away from the giggles and whispers of slumber parties and backyard camp outs. In time they learn that life isn't supposed to be about fun, its work, bills, children, spouses, heartbreak, sorrow, and shoes. "Please!" I want to scream, "Let them play a little longer!" But we cannot stop the encroaching shoes. One heavy step at a time, they're coming, and we can't escape them.

Defiantly, I look back at Jason, "It's just that we don't wear them where I'm from." He rolls his eyes, I can see him thinking, and I can almost hear the words forming in his head. "Here we go again." the gears seem to squeak out. They can't bother me; I'm lost in a world of memories now.

I remember some of the adults carrying a pair of flip flops so they could go inside to buy a Slush Puppy, and pay for their gas at the service stations. After all, no shirt, no shoes, no service...Maybe that explains why children couldn't go in...no shoes yet. I remember wanting them so badly, a pair of shoes for myself, red ones, with

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