Written by Tom Davis – Mama said she could just die. Daddy sighed and shook his head. The new preacher’s wife gagged. Aunt Josie’s eyes rolled. Paw Paw grinned. And Uncle Bud. . .He gnawed on his drumstick.

I hate okra. I can’t stand the sight, the smell, and most of all, the taste of it. Feeling this way started when I ate too many bowls of Maw Maw’s vegetable soup and got sick. The only memory I have of that occasion is the taste of okra. Ugh!

I grew up in a small Southern town. Insofar as religion went, you were either First Baptist or First Methodist, and I was well into high school before I realized you could be something else. If you know those Methodists, then you know they change preachers about as often as they change their underwear. We Baptists, on the other hand, latch on to one and good, bad, or ugly, keep him forever.

Dr. Cutts had retired after twenty-something years with us, and a new preacher took his place. Mama was fulfilling her “obligation” when she invited him and his wife for Sunday dinner.

I remember it like yesterday. Mama went all out. Including our family, we had coming Paw Paw, Maw Maw, Aunt Josie, Uncle Bud (“no-a-count Bud,” as Daddy called him), the new preacher, and his wife. We put two extra leaves in the dining room table, and Mama covered it with that real nice white lace tablecloth Aunt Polly sent her from Germany.

We usually ate at one o’clock but this day we didn’t sit down until right at two. I was particularly antsy. Two of my best friends, Bobby Newby and Bobby Carr were waiting for me in the front yard with their fishing poles and a big tomato can filled with peat moss, cow manure, and red wigglers.

Instead of asking Paw Paw to give the Jackson’s family blessing, Mama felt compelled to ask the preacher to say grace— preachers don’t say the blessing, they say grace.  At the four minute mark, I peeked over at Uncle Bud. Sure enough he was nibbling on flakes of fried chicken!

The preacher finally finished, and before the chorus of “Amens” died down, I commenced eating. In no time, I cleaned my plate and asked Mama if I could be excused. Well, you’d have thought I’d asked permission to strip naked and dance around the table. “No, you can’t be excused,” she said. “Our guests haven’t finished.”

I finished early mainly because I hadn’t felt compelled to tell Mama how “golden flaky” her fried chicken was or how “wonderful” her creamy mashed potatoes were or how “delightful” her congealed salad was. And I already knew how she made such “magnificent” iced tea. Anyway, that’s when she plopped two spoonfuls of smelly, slimy, boiled okra onto my plate and said, “You haven’t had enough vegetables. Eat this okra. It’s good for you.”

I stared in horror at that okra, watching the slime ooze over my plate. The smell got up my nose and turned my stomach. “Mama,” I said, “I can’t eat this stuff. It makes me sick!”

“That was a long time ago,” she said. “You haven’t had any lately, and you aren’t being excused until you’ve tried a bite.”

It wouldn’t do but the new preacher had to get involved. From his seat directly across from me he leaned over and said, “Rip, I dearly love boiled okra, and this is the best okra I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

It didn’t surprise me. Everything he put in his mouth today was the best ever. I couldn’t help but wonder what that said about his wife’s cooking. I guessed he’d hear about it when she got him home. Anyway, to prove his point, he cut the end off a smelly, slimy piece of okra, gigged it with his fork, shoveled it into his mouth, and commenced chewing. “Ummmmmm,” he said, grinning like a possum stuffed with ripe persimmons.

If I wanted to leave the table early, I knew I’d have to try that okra. It had been a while. I figured if I didn’t chew and thought a happy thought as I swallowed it, then it would go down okay. So I did it.

I threw that piece of okra into my mouth, thought about the catfish I was going to catch that day, and swallowed hard. It started down fine, but halfway between my mouth and stomach it decided to come back up. Trailing close behind were fried chicken, Mama’s famous mashed potatoes, creamed corn, scrambled eggs from breakfast, and a piece of last night’s pork chops.

Now this wasn’t the namby-pamby kind of throw-up. You know the kind you can catch in your hands while you make it to the toilet or somewhere. No sir, I looked like a fire hydrant turned on full force, and it headed directly for the new preacher. That stuff hit him square in the chest and splattered all over his red and black tie, starched white shirt, and pinstriped suit. I figured he’d change his opinion about okra after this.

The new preacher jumped back as anyone would who’d been hit in the chest with that much you-know-what. When his shoulders slammed the back of his chair, he started falling. Attempting to catch himself, he reached for the table but only succeeded in grabbing Mama’s tablecloth.

Over he went, taking with him his plate and that bowl of smelly, slimy, boiled okra. His wife and Aunt Josie sat on either side of him. From their faces, you’d have thought he lay there exposing himself. Things got pretty quiet. After all, what do you say when the new preacher is lying toes up on your floor covered with smelly, slimy, boiled okra and your son’s throw-up?

Everybody’s plate ended up either on the other side of the table or in their laps. Uncle Bud, who had been gnawing a drumstick at the time, broke the silence saying to Mama through a mouth crammed with chicken, “Mary Ann, Rip told you he couldn’t eat that okra.” And pointing his half-eaten chicken leg at the new preacher, he continued,

“Besides, the preacher there did say he dearly loved boiled okra, didn’t he?”

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Tom Davis’ publishing credits include Poets Forum, The Carolina Runner, Triathlon Today, Georgia Athlete, Proud to Be: Writings by American Warriors Vol. 3, A Loving Voice Vol. I and II, Special Warfare., and Winston-Salem Writers’ POETRY IN PLAIN SIGHT program for May 2013 (poetry month). He’s authored the following books: The Life and Times of Rip Jackson, The Most Fun I Ever Had With My Clothes On, The Patrol Order; and The R-complex. www.oldmp.com/e-book Tom lives in Webster, NC.

 

Tom Davis

 

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