Although there are some movies that capture the essence of what it means to be a newspaper journalist, no film has managed to capture the day-to-day reality of the job.

There is a perfectly understandable reason for this, of course: After almost 35 years in the profession, I have learned that a reporter’s job consists of instances of gratification, excitement, validation surrounded by long stretches of tedium, frustration, boredom. It’s not particularly cinematic.

Every now and then, as a reporter begins the day’s work, he will call sources, and they will immediately answer the phone and be prepared to respond with thoughtful, clear answers to the reporters questions. This happens only often enough to give the reporter hope.

More often, the calls go to voice mail or a secretary and the reporter spends the next few hours waiting for the return call, which sometimes never comes or comes in that one minute that the reporter has stepped away to use the restroom.

In this way, a story that might require only a few hours to report and write becomes a day long ordeal, sometimes worse as stories are held until the reporting is completed.

Wednesday was one of those good days, though. Through the first part of the week, I had incomplete stories piled up like travelers waiting to get through airport security, each needing information from one or two sources before they could be finished.

Then Wednesday arrived and suddenly, phone calls were answered on the first ring, sources provided the needed information and the writing came easy.

So it was that by 4 in the afternoon, my day’s work was finished and the stories were written and ready for editing.

To celebrate, I did something I haven’t done in I can’t remember how long.

I changed into shorts and a T-Shirt and, rather than slipping on my sandals, I went bare-foot.

I wandered around the house, feeling the coolness of the hardwood floors on my feet and out into the yard, walking gingerly across the concrete patio, my feet sensitive to even the smallest crumb of a rock or miniscule twig. Walking across the lawn, though, was pure heaven, my feet in the cool dampness of the lush green, freshly-mowed lawn. As I experienced all these sensations, I wondered why it had been so long since I went bare-foot.

People just don’t seem to do that anymore, for some reason, not even kids. To test that theory, I spent about a half-hour driving around in search of kids at play. Of course, kids don’t play outdoors as much as they did when I was a their ages, but those kids I did encounter were all wearing shoes. Boys still go shirtless in warm weather – that hasn’t changed, but I didn’t see a single pair of bare feet.

In my long-ago youth, kids spent the whole summers bare-foot. When school ended, the shoes went into the closet and we all moved carefully through our outdoor world of play as sensitive feet adjusted to the naked landscape. We were careful where we stepped during those first few days of summer freedom.

Within a week or two, though, we could walk through broken glass or hot coals without a thought, or so it seemed.

It’s a small thing, I realize, and may seem insignificant. But as I walked along my lawn late Wednesday afternoon, walking bare-foot was one of those little forgotten pleasures.

Sometimes, you recapture those old moments and are surprised at how pleasant and comforting they can be.

Years ago in Arizona, when my travel options were limited to walking or riding my bicycle, one hot afternoon as I walked along toward a destination I have forgotten, I noticed an irrigation ditch next to the road. On an impulse, I pulled off my socks and shoes, sat at the side of the ditch and plunged my feet into the cool, comforting ankle-deep water.

In the distance, I could see the multi-million dollar homes perched on the side of mountains and thought to myself that, at this very moment, the owner of that house is dipping his feet into his lavish swimming pool.

Yet I doubted his enjoyment was any greater than the sensations I was feeling as the cool water flowing through the ditch coursed over my weary feet. What is to say the burden of his wealth may have, at that moment, rendered him unaware and unappreciative of the moment?

Simple pleasures, right? It’s kind of a worn-out idea, but no less true if we really allow ourselves to be fully in the moment, having laid our distractions aside.

It took only a couple of bare-footed hours to remind me of that.

Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].

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