Top o’ the FootSuzanne Broadhurst
Don’t you hate it when the tops of your feet itch? It’s fungi-mentally better than when the bottoms do (can anyone say, It’s time to bleach the bathtub?) yet, to have my foot roofs beg for a scratch. Ugh.
Indeed, who wants to yank the ol’ digits to hip height to scratch the itch? Then we’d have to wash our hands. Better to use the other foot’s toes to do the job. But how ineffective, really.
Top-of-the-foot itchies do indicate who is in my house, however. Or what. I can pretty much guarantee, here in Florida, it’s a skeeter. Or a herd of them. Yes, I know it’s wintertime and they shouldn’t run in herds, but who listens to me?
Run in herd they do, and bite they definitely do. Swell. No, not as in “Woohoo!” but as in puff up. I swell and I itch. Reminds me of history classes in school. Welts of brain inflammation and an itch I couldn’t rid. Unfortunately, not the kind of itch as in, “I am itchin’ to do this.” I was itchin’ to get out of it, not into it.
Textbook history with a droning master teacher was like scratching feet with toes; it sort of helps, but doesn’t really meet the foot-felt need. My high school American history teacher, of all my historical helpers, tried to bring joy to the world of facts, dates, and faces. We played Q&A baseball and held a mock trial. It helped, but for the most part, history was a yawn-er for me.
Aware of generational hand-me-downs, I didn’t want to pass on my lack of enthusiasm to my children, but I didn’t feel I had much choice as I perused one history textbook after another. Then my itch, historical if not venom-al, was cured. Mystery of History was like calamine lotion to my chronological soul. It took the sting out of dates and facts, offering a pink sheen of curiosity to my children’s faces, especially when we made history happen in our very own bathtub!
Sometimes it’s not the bite that’s painful, it’s the way we scratch it that makes the difference.
Fluttering by for now,