The Clodhoppers of  Winter

Ron Keedy

 “Free at last!” shouted five left toes.  “Free at last!” shouted five right 
toes.  “Free at last,” wiggled all ten toes as they stuck out from under the old 
quilt, tasting the warm June air, knowing they would no longer be prisoners of  
the “clodhoppers of  winter.”  Brogans, boots, clodhoppers, call them what you 
want, but this morning they get tossed to the deepest, backest, remotest corner of  
the closet, never, again, to surround these toes with the stiff leather trappings of  
winter snows and heavy rains.

 There’s a special season, known only to boys. It comes at the end of  
spring and the beginning of  summer.  It’s the season of  barefoot.  It’s the season 
of  Huckleberry suspendered pants, torn t-shirts and the magic of  Milligan Park 
grass still cool and wet between your bare toes.  It starts with a quick drink from 
the water fountain next to the old picket fence bandstand where you can stand 
under the roof  and watch the whole park get washed clean by a warm summer 
shower and you never get wet.  Tearing down the hill to the playground you can 
make a high jump off the swings, tumble through the monkey bars and fly down 
the big slide at burn-your-butt speed, finally grabbing at the sky in higher and 
higher circles on the Maypole and falling breathless, burying your toes in the 
warm sand while spilling squeals and giggles everywhere.

 Next comes a quick cooling, minnow-nibbling wade in Dry Branch 
around past the miniature train and golf  course and you come face-to-face with 
every Milligan Park kid’s rite of  passage, THE TUNNEL.  A heart pounding 
crawl through total darkness while stranger-friends taunt you with spooky growls 
and groans and you pop out the other end squinting in the sun, heading for the 
trails.  Climbing to the top you get to dirt-pants slide down to Dry Branch and 
then do it all again while making Tarzan calls to friends in pursuit.

 The huge covered grandstand bleachers of  the old ball diamond are 
lonely and empty now.  On hot summer days past, it sheltered sweaty, cheering 
baseball fans from the sun.  Like a giant Noah’s Ark, they sat two-by-two, feasting 
on hot dogs and warm Cokes while hoping for a cool breeze to find them.  If  you 
listen, you can hear a million “sa-wing batta” taunts that have soaked into the 
nooks and crannies of  the weathered boards. As the sun begins to wander into 
the west, a solitary home-run trip around the bases with the wonderful feeling of  
hot ball diamond dust all over your feet, and it’s time to head home.

 Slamming screen doors brought together the neighborhood gang for 
a game of  statues or hide-n-seek in the waning evening light.  Mothers calling 
everyone to wonderful small town suppers and finally the adults settling into the 
porch howdahs with the glow of  pipes and cigars lighting up the night like so 
many red fireflies, ends a perfect June day.

 
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 Feeling the good tired, I climb the stairs to our bedroom and spy a shoe 
box on my bed.  Mom has surprised me with a box of  new adventures.  Nestled 
among the crisp tissue is a brand new pair of  tennis shoes from Miller’s Shoes, 
downtown.  Tennis shoes that are full of  summer magic.  Tennis shoes that can 
scorch sidewalks, jump over Dry Branch, flower beds and sleeping dogs.  Tennis 
shoes that won’t let you stand still; that have miles and miles of  running stored 
up that steer you to the Strand theatre, the skating rink and back and forth from 
The Big Dipper for ice cream.  Tennis shoes that let you pull the pig tails of  street 
skating girls and disappear into a puff of  summer dust.  I knew, in my heart, that 
these brand new, super charged, wings for my feet would die next September 
and there would be a new pair of  “the clodhoppers of  winter,” but right now, the 
summer adventures begin.        

     

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