+ Her Barefoot Heart
she had closed her eyes
to so much
for so long
that eventually
they receded into
mere specks of
background color.
To see the big picture . . . Continue reading
“i was a war bride,” she says. “we were so scared – things were changing so fast – we needed something to hold onto and we knew marriage even if we didn’t know each other.”
“but i wouldn’t do it again. no, i definitely wouldn’t do it again.”
///
maybe it’s because my daddy worked in a rock quarry,
maybe it’s because i collected rocks as a kid,
maybe it’s because i’m plum nelly crazy.
whatever the reason,
i see stories in stone.
stoneiatures, i call them.
if you’d like to see the context,
the complete photo,
come right this way . . .
she had reached
that certain age
where it seemed
to those who had
known her for a long time
that she was of
two mouths
and it often seemed to those
on the receiving end
that the mouth in the back
of her head
was full of
jagged, razor-sharp, uncensored teeth.
it didn’t take long,
as it turned out,
for that toothy, cheeky,
big ole’ mouth
with the prominent overbite
to become
her favorite
way to communicate.
///
maybe it’s because my daddy worked in a rock quarry,
maybe it’s because i collected rocks as a kid,
maybe it’s because i’m plum nelly crazy.
whatever the reason,
i see stories in stone.
stoneiatures, i call them.
if you’d like to see the context,
the complete photo,
come right this way . . .
sometimes you create something
and it just doesn’t feel right
even though you created
the image you saw
as your waking thought.
and you value waking thoughts
more than anything.
so you sit with it a while,
in case something
surfaces
and changes things.
but eventually you realize
that it just doesn’t work
so you cut it up
then you cut it up again
and again
and tomorrow
or the next day
you start over,
weaving the parts together,
in a new way.
bringing in new pieces
and weaving them in and out
over and under
and you don’t stop
until
it tickles
you.
She’s coming next week,
the new girlfriend,
and though i’m eager to meet Her,
i worry i’ll embarrass
my son
when She sees
an overweight,
out of shape
redhead from a bottle.
a woman who has
pretty teeth
(thanks, mom)
but too many chins
and a face that
increasingly
resembles her
daddy’s side of the family.
i know nothing about Her
save her name.
that’s unusual,
but He tells me He wants
me to meet Her
with fresh eyes.
does She like to read
and if so, what?
does she paint?
dance?
draw?
stitch?
garden?
does She
laugh easily and often?
does She enjoy long
philosophical talks
that go into the
dark:thirty hours?
does She cheat at canasta?
shop off the list?
will She be territorial?
possessive?
will i feel the need to
ask Her permission to
spend time with my son alone?
will He make apologies
dressed as
explanations
on their way back to colorado?
there was a time
when i lived to
embarrass Him,
but He’s not in
high school any more.
i remember the first
time i took my husband
to my grandparents’ house.
it was as though i were
visiting for the first time, too.
seeing the concrete block steps,
the small, rickety handrail.
the rusty screen door,
the mesh full of holes that
allowed flies to traipse
in and out of that kitchen
at will.
the gold ceramic fish
with three different-sized
bubbles that decorated
the single bathroom.
it was the first time i noticed
that their feather bed
with the vinyl-covered headboard
was in their den,
the room that housed
not only their bed
but two rocking chairs, a space heater,
grandmother’s treadle sewing machine,
the dresser,
home of necessary toiletries
and fabric scraps,
the telephone on the wall,
and the television
that all but dialed itself
to live atlanta wrestling
every saturday night.
it was the first time i saw
that the combination
bedroom/den
was illuminated by a
single bare bulb
hanging down from the ceiling.
i wasn’t at all embarrassed,
just surprised that
i’d never really
seen these things before.
that the place where i’d spent so much
of my life
was new to me
on that day.
Today I am tired – tired to the molecular level, I tell you – and that’s why it could have gone either way: I could’ve gone ballistic, or in the interest of energy conservation, I could’ve said nothing . . .
Today is my brother’s wedding anniversary, you see, and last night he called from Afghanistan asking me to send flowers to his lovely wife, Robin – something I wasn’t able to do until around 2:30 this afternoon. I went online, googled florists in her city and state, then scrolled down to find the magic words “same day delivery.” The one I decided on promised to deliver the same day provided the order was placed by 3:30 p.m. Eastern Time Zone and you paid an additional fee. Having an hour to spare and the $2.95 in additional fees, I finished placing my order with 20 minutes to spare then turned my attention back to wrestling the to do list.
Thank goodness the email was up in the background, so I saw the confirmation email followed minutes later by the dreaded there’s-a-problem-with-your-order-call-us-at-your-earliest-convenience email. Well, things immediately shifted and right then became my earliest convenience so I called, and after 7 minutes on hold, Dianne answered and explained that there were no florists in the area willing to deliver today, but they’d all be happy to deliver the flowers sometime tomorrow.
Dianne said something about florists sometimes not being able to get their drivers back in time – to which I said quietly and calmly that I’d met the deadline and their web site was pretty definitive about same day delivery provided orders were placed by 3:30 p.m. Eastern time, which I had done. Dianne then said she’d call Robin and explain that it was their fault and promise her that they would deliver the flowers tomorrow – to which I (still using my best calmly and quietly tone of voice) said that I thought the element of surprise was part of the charm of receiving flowers, didn’t she, then I explained about the anniversary, and being the hopeless romantic she must assuredly be, Dianne then sat up straight (I could hear it in her voice) and said she wasn’t making any promises, but she’d call around and see if she couldn’t explain the situation and find somebody willing to delivery the flowers on their way home or something.
In less than 5 minutes, Dianne called to say that she’d found a florist who, after hearing the story, was willing to drop the flowers off on her way home.
AND they were going to upgrade the order, add a few flowers and a bigger bow or something.
AND they were covering all upcharges on same day delivery.
So you see, sometimes moving a mountain is as easy as 1, 2, 3:
1) Lead with friendly.
2) Be patient.
3) Tell the story.
and TA-DA – everybody goes home smiling.
This work by Jeanne Hewell-Chambers is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at http://www.TheBarefootHeart.com.
© 2026 Jeanne Hewell-Chambers
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