On May 1, at age 75, I felt like taking off my orthopedic shoes and going barefoot in public.

That’s the day my mother used to allow me and my sister to start going barefooted outside, the day we could first cool our heels and revel in freedom of the toes.

Mama set the arbitrary date by executive decision. Now I understand it was to protect herself from having to deal with the runny noses of sick kids with spring colds.

The rule was one of several Mama had about uncovered feet. Winter or summer, she insisted we have something on our feet when we were lying down.

“Cover up your feet or you’ll catch cold,” she would say. She would hurry across the room to throw an afghan across the feet of anyone who would casually lie down uncovered.

When we first ventured outside unshod, the bottoms of our feet were still tender. We stepped tentatively on the cool grass and noticed every crack in the smooth sidewalk.

Creeks were few and far between in our neighborhood, but rainwater sometimes ran in the gutters, and we went out of our way to wade in them, splashing as much as possible.

As our feet gradually toughened, we comfortably scampered over the roughest gravel and rocks. As summer progressed and hot city streets sizzled with black tar bubbles, we popped them with our bare toes.

We had followed Mama’s rule but were quite legalistic and insisted on living by the letter of her law. If a freak winter storm had blown in May 1, we would have demanded leave to skate on the ice with naked feet.

Our feet had been imprisoned far too long in their saddle oxfords. Now, like immigrants in sight of the Statue of Liberty, they longed to breathe free.

Mama understood that. As a child she had gone barefoot even into the hot cotton fields (more by economic necessity than by choice, I suspect; shoes were for school, not for summer.) She remembered that the soles of her own feet were tough as leather.

Into her old age, easily reverting to childhood, she enjoyed padding around the house all the time, sans shoes.

Now it’s all I can do to stand up without shoes. Truth be told, I don’t care to go barefoot anywhere except in memory and fantasy. But when the first of May arrives, with Mama’s permission, I still feel entitled.

Jeanie Mercer interprets for the deaf at Brookview Church of Christ and is an author. E-mail: JMercer532@aol.com.