The summer following sixth grade was an adventurous season. Bobba and I had become friends at a local church’s family activity center in the early 1970s. Once I finished the housework chores upstairs on Saturday mornings, I would walk to meet her there. We would skate in the gym or bowl when we had money, but most of the time we just walked around outside and talked.
One Saturday in July, Bobba was excitedly waiting for me when I entered the building. She shared details about an upcoming 20-mile walkathon for a nationwide charity and suggested we start collecting pledges and money for this event. She had the official pledge form and papers that identified the charity already in hand. I was somewhat apprehensive about asking for money from strangers, but she was inspired. After much coaxing, I agreed to participate.
We walked a couple of city blocks to a high-rise apartment building in Midtown Memphis and promptly entered the front door. I do not recall if there was anyone inside the lobby as we proceeded to the elevator, but no one stopped us. We started on the first floor, knocking on every door. Surprisingly, many people were home and answered our knocks. We were invited into their apartments as we started reciting our practiced sales pitch. Some gave cash and most wrote checks. We tucked all the money into a clasp envelope that Bobba had brought and moved onto the next floor. Sometimes the people just wanted to talk and were curious about us, somewhat astonished that we were unescorted by an adult. I recall a few moments of misgiving, but nothing inappropriate occurred. We spent most of the afternoon collecting funds and pledges before returning to the activity center. We were both happy with the results and looked forward to the walkathon scheduled for the following month.
The only instructions I remember for preparation of the walk were to wear comfortable shoes. This was a 20-mile walk in the middle of a typical hot and humid Memphis summer. We started at the Mid-South Coliseum and ventured West towards the medical center (close to Downtown Memphis at that time), before turning North and then East on other major thoroughfares. We walked the main streets, roped off from passing traffic. Special vehicles were labeled to pick up any walkers who could not finish the route and needed a ride back to the coliseum. There were moments when I wanted to flag one of those cars, but did not, and trudged along with Bobba in the searing heat. We walked all day, stopping occasionally to sit down on a lawn to rest, and reached the starting point about 7 pm. I just wanted cold water and cool air. We eventually made our way to the check-in tables to document that we had finished the walk. We were presented with a “Battered Foot” certificate in appreciation for our steps. The reward did not match the effort in my tired mind, but at least it was over. We started the walk home on our battered feet.
The next Saturday we returned to the apartment building to collect on the pledges that did not pay in advance. Our feet were still tired from the prior weekend. Pre-walkathon enthusiasm had been replaced by sore feet with healing blisters, and it was a drudge to retrace our steps. When we returned to the activity center, Bobba asked if I would drop off the money at the charity’s local office on Madison Avenue within the next week, and I assured her I would.
I remember the pride I felt when Aunt Lucy drove me to the address and we walked inside together. I explained to the lady who greeted us upon entering how my friend and I had raised this money. We had walked the entire 20 miles and had collected $66 and some change in cash, plus the checks. My face was beaming as though I were handing her a fortune! The physical sacrifice of our efforts contributed to the value of our gift to my way of thinking, though in reality it was a small token compared to the total amount of money raised through the walkathon. I kept that certificate for many years.
Sadly that summer was the end of my friendship with Bobba. We started junior high in 7th grade at a different school building, and our paths separated by friend choices. I lost track of her during the following summer and never saw her again. The charity office is no longer in Memphis and I have not heard of a walkathon in several decades for that particular organization. Her memory returned to my mind out of the blue and I lifted her in prayer. The details of our battered feet replayed in my mind and I smiled in remembrance, thankful for our shared adventure that summer.