My Dad's Feet

During the winter, my feet get no attention.  

Socks and shoes, mixed with boots is the norm in the midwest.

Come spring, the sandals come out.

Urgh!

I'm reminded of my feet,

and how they don't really look like girl's feet.

They look like my dad's feet.

Sorry, no picture of unpainted toes.

So, a pedicure should do the trick, don't you think?

Here they are (I know - subfloor is waiting for a new face too.)

Hmmm, still looks like my dad's feet but with polish.

Perhaps if I stage them on a pretty quilt?

Hmmmm, not so much. 

Maybe a pretty backdrop?

Hmmmm, not so much. 

Let's face it.  I'm stuck with my dad's feet.

I'm sure the abuse I put them through when I was a teenager probably didn't help matters.

........like baling hay in bare feet, mowing lawn in bare feet,

 walking through manure in bare feet because feet were easier to clean off with a hose than boots (never NEVER would I do that now - what was I thinking?),

........running on our gravel driveway in bare feet (guess that is why I never remember having young and soft feet),

and as a result, I stepped on many nails.......multiple tetanus shots were part of my medical history, and planter's warts had to be cut out of my sole.

But I wouldn't have changed those memories of growing up on the farm for anything, so I guess having my dad's feet isn't such a bad thing.