“Ow!Ow!” I shouted as I broke my jump rope rhythm and tangled my feet in the slack1 rope.“Something in my shoe is biting me.” I wailed.
The first graders waiting to jump and the two rope turners circled around me on the dirt playground. My teacher, Miss Bell, heard me and hurried over, leaving the other recess teacher in mid-conversation.
“It’s still stinging me.” I cried as the circle of children opened for Miss Bell.
“Which foot is it?” she asked.
I stuck up my right foot as she stooped over to inspect2 it. Just then, feeling a new sting, I yelped in pain.
“Here. Let’s take off your shoe.” instructed Miss Bell, squatting down to get the shoe.
Then, I remembered the holes in my socks. Welfare socks didn’t last long. Holes in socks were amon thing for our f***ly in the years following the Great Depression. Shoes got fresh paper inserted every Saturday to cover the holes in their soles. But socks with