Bare Feet
In the fall, in Northeast Provo, Utah autumn leaves roll through the neighborhoods like auburn-colored tides on bitter winds. The snow hasn’t yet fallen and the rain only drops in on occasion; there is a sting in the air if you aren’t dressed for the cold. And on one particular fall afternoon in 2010, my children weren’t dressed for the cold.
All at once, just as I was beginning to wonder what dinner might look like that day, they blew in from the outdoors: my own feral children and a handful of neighbor urchins, the door swinging wide and slamming into the doorstop as their fresh red cheeks came puffing across the threshold; some bare-footed and most of them underdressed, they tumbled into the living room one after another with triumph written across their faces. They had interrupted my brief but treasured solitude, and were all in a flurry to show me what they’d done.
The tumult of bodies came stumbling into the living room of our rented home that was bathed in various shades of beige and brown, with a cacophony of boisterous chatter and color and light that cut straight through the overcast afternoon.
Come in and get warm, you animals! I hollered at them, while the unusually patient bulldog, Margot, wriggled her way into the mix of energy with some soft barks and her tail shimmying in response to all the excitement which she had no way of understanding.
“Mom!, Wait til you see…”
“...and then we found…”
“...Maude gave them a toothbrush…”
They were all trying to tell me at once, and as a result I could only catch little snippets as they panted out the tale of their odyssey.
Tatum, my strawberry blonde oldest who was 9 and the stalwart brunette neighbor, came in like war-heroes with the little ones; 3-year olds, Maude, my quiet youngest and her neighborhood counterpart were hanging from their older sisters’ own small limbs. The boys, my 5 yr old son Eli and his buddy were caught up in the joy and the thrill of the day’s triumph and still, I couldn’t make sense of what they were telling me.
Cleo, the second of my brood, who had all of 7 years to her at that time, her soft brown curls tipped with summer blonde and knotted from the wind, held out a toy cash register I didn’t recognize.
I didn’t need to recognize toys at my house as our open-door policy with the neighbors across the street meant that all our toys were in a constant process of exchange. One of my children might procure something special, like a doll for a birthday, but then find that the neighbor’s Tonka truck might be a worthy trade for a little while. I never worried too much as everything had a way of making its way back home again, like the children who were allowed to wander at will most days. Besides, our neighbors were as broke as we were, and our children’s things seemed to compare, value-wise, pretty fairly, and it turns out: they were shrewd little merchants anyway.
But I had no idea.
Cleo proceeded to open the cash register with its sad little “ding” from years of wear, which produced $14. Fourteen real paper dollars! Now I was really intrigued.
What? I kept asking. It was like being in a dream-state. Things were unfolding before my eyes and the energy in the room made me feel equally curious and terrified at what was going to be said next.
“...and you should have seen Cleo!’
“...there was this chandelier…”
“And coloring pages…”
Although their voices were getting louder with each description, still my confusion seemed to sink deeper and deeper. Finally, I had to quiet everyone down long enough to find out how my children made $14 wandering the neighborhood in bare-feet and disheveled hair.
“Everyone be quiet!” I managed to eek out over the din of the children’s excitement. “I don’t understand what happened. Just be quiet for a minute so I can get the story straight.”
Tatum, ever the dutiful oldest volunteered to recount the story:
“Mom, we were playing at the secret park over by the church parking lot,” she began. The secret park, as it had come to be known, was a small stretch of land behind a few houses on our street that some property owners in the 50s decided to pool together for a swing set and slide. The playthings were old, but still worked and the kids loved to go there because they felt some ownership over this space. It also happened to be right behind a church and its parking lot, so we had to be very clear about safety, especially on Sundays or days when people were gathering there.
“And we wandered over to the church.” Tatum was taking her time telling the story carefully, so I would understand. But Cleo was impatient.
“We went dumpster diving!” She interrupted, much to Tatum’s consternation.
“Wait, what?” I was dumbfounded. I’m sure they could see it on my face. Maybe they didn’t understand the term so I double-checked.
“What do you mean you went dumpster-diving?”
Tatum, annoyed that her sister interrupted her and needing to exert her seniority in the tribe explained, “Mom. You know how there’s that big dumpster behind the church?”
“Yeeees,” I replied slowly with a sense of trepidation.
“We jumped in!” cried Cleo with excitement and it got the whole group going again: “We jumped in!” they cried. “We went dumpster-diving!” they were all shouting gleefully.
Tatum was growing irritated with these interruptions. This time it was her turn to shut down the rabble.
“Be quiet! SHHHH!!! I’m trying to tell it!” she insisted with a stomp.
“Ok,” I interjected as calmly as possible, “you jumped into the dumpster? All of you?” Tatum could clearly see and hear the worry in my face and my voice.
“Yeah, but mom,” she reassured, “it was full of so much cool stuff!”
Reassure me, she did not.
“But I still don’t know how you got the money. Was the money in the dumpster?”
“No,” she began, but Cleo, who had been biting her lip to keep from interjecting, could contain herself no longer,
“Mom, we sold it! We had a traaaaveling yard sale!”
And with those words, the little ones, the boys, the whole crowd erupted in a chorus of “We’re a traaaaaveleing yard sale! A traaaveling yard sale!” which they repeated and sang as they marched and danced around the room in circles, their arms waving in the air like invisible batons were being spun and thrown in the air.
This is when my heart began to really sink. *Gulp. Please tell me they didn’t, I thought.
Just then Tatum continued, “we found coloring pages, and toothbrushes still in the package, and this cash register, and…”
“A chandelier!!!” Cleo shouted, earning her another irritated side-eye from her older sister.
Between the seven of them, the story began to take shape: they jumped in the dumpster to retrieve the treasures that it held, they loaded up the wagon that usually holds the 3-yr olds on their neighborhood excursions, and they decided to see if any of the neighbors wanted to buy any of their finds.
Now I really felt ill. It wasn’t just that they had jumped into a dumpster, with God knows what they could have come across there, but half of them were barefoot, it was freezing cold, and most of them had stripped their outer layers off to aid in their efforts. But then, as though that wasn’t enough to stop a mother in her tracks, they went door to door in our little parochial neighborhood, to sell garbage.
The neighbors! What must the neighbors think? I thought as I wrestled with my gag reflex and had to sit down to take it all in. It wasn’t just all of the reasons above that were concerning. The truth is, wherever we have lived, we have always had a knack of making our presence known. Between my husband’s booming voice and his tendency to spin a tale about his wild upbringing (his mother started a cult, his father fell off a mountain-the stories are endless), our inability to show up on time to anything, our autistic son, Eli, who doesn’t care for clothes and was often seen roaming the neighborhood in nothing more than undies and boots, our dogs, our distaste for adhering to most social norms and expectations, especially in a religious town, in short: the circus that has been our life as a family. Many of the neighbors were either entertained by our antics or annoyed most of the time.
But this little misadventure just happened to occur while we were both out of work. My husband had lost his job just a few months prior and was struggling to find work beyond the stop-gap jobs one takes, like stocking shelves or throwing boxes at FedEx. The neighbors must think we are really getting desperate…
Now the children were laughing, “Mom! We sold them toothbrushes!” I was horrified.
“Please tell me they were in packages,” I ventured, unsure if I really wanted to know the answer.
“Yes, mom!” was the irritated return. “We wouldn’t sell people used toothbrushes!”
I suppose there was some comfort to be had in that.
As the children warmed themselves and discussed the ways the money would be split and the ways that they would spend their portions, I was at a loss. Beyond the few questions I had asked, I was speechless.
And here began my conundrum: To be honest, I was, in fact, rather impressed by their ingenuity and gumption. We were always telling our children to play outside and be creative and watch out for each other and in this one incident, they had done all of that and more. But it was dangerous. And they should know that. But if I got angry with them, would it inhibit other creative ventures down the road? But if I don’t say anything, will their money-making schemes get more dangerous? Would they grow up to find themselves drawn into an MLM? Or God-forbid, a legging cult run by stay-at-home moms?
As the evening wore on, and neighbor children went home, and the excitement of the afternoon began to settle with the sun, a cool self-satisfaction passed between the children. They were no longer laughing and bouncing over their conquest, but quietly pleased with themselves. It was as though they had done something real for the first time in their young lives.
The darkness of the evening deepened and the warm glow of the stock rental lighting lit up our little brick home where I saw my children in a new light, somehow capable and somehow grown. They’re adventurers, I thought, as the wind picked up and began to send small, melodic whistles through the cracks under the doors and in the window frames.
When I tucked them into beds that night, I told them that dumpster-diving could be very dangerous, that they need to ask mom and dad before they go door-to-door doing anything, and that they should wear shoes outdoors. Those are the things a mother has to say.
But as I lay in bed that night retelling the days’ adventures to my husband, I mostly envied their enterprise, their fearlessness, and those tough little feet.
Great story!! It's the sort of thing i would never have been brave enough to try - even with a large group egging me on!!
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