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The Okra Incident

Daddy was smiling. Mother looked as though she would cry. Two brothers and a sister sat slumped in the back seat with arms folded tightly across their chests. What was I doing? Well, I was on the edge of my seat with excitement and anticipation of this move to the country from the big city of Atlanta. It went without saying, only Daddy and I were looking forward to this.

I, being a romantic, had a head filled with ideas about how my new life would be. Dreaming it would be like the grade school primer about Mr. Bones, a mule, and Jerry and Alice. We would sit on the porch and shell peas or beans or what ever it was they shelled in the country. There would be the millpond to swim in and all the pets we could care for. Cows, pigs, chickens, ducks and even horses. But best of all we could have fried okra anytime we wanted. Oh, how I loved fried okra.

Such were my thoughts as we drove north on highway forty-one. In reality, I knew nothing of the hard work ahead which included cleaning overgrown garden plots, long in disuse, as well as an introduction to house keeping in a chicken coop. Nor did I have any idea of how long it took okra to grow to the bearing stage. I was a true city girl.

Our new home was a ninety-plus acre farm located about nine and a half miles from the nearest town. To be exact, it was situated exactly half-way between Atlanta and Chattanooga. This was too far for running into town very often, as we had when living in the city.

I had not thought about all the activities I would be forced to give up. Daddy still worked in Atlanta, and it was much too late when he came home for us to go to choir practice or a movie. Anyway, they rolled up the streets at about six o'clock everyday in that sleepy little town. I miss that now that I am older, and everyone is in such a hurry. Still, my time that Spring was filled with exploring and learning.

For breakfast my brothers and sister still wanted cold cereal that would do something. You know, like snap and crackle at you or turn pink in the bowl. But not me! No, I went to Momma's house and ate biscuits and gravy every morning. Sometimes she fried salt pork that was so crisp it melted like a potato chip in your mouth. But it tasted way better. I loved walking down the hill to her house at sunrise on a chilly morning in the fall. I could smell the smoke from the fire and see it curling from the chimney.

She and Poppa Joe were my Mother's parents and had moved to the farm with us. There was nothing

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