Golden Okra Ocracoke is lovely the way little beach villages once were and still should be today. An island worth remembering, a restful, pleasant place to stay. It was on lovely Ocracoke in our cute little space when she said, “it‘s stuffy,” and set my mind to race. She likes piles of covers and banishes breezes to the beach, so I worry what she meant in her short two-word speech. Can it be the company’s stuffy, when it’s just me here with her? I know that I can be fussy, but am I also getting stuffy? Home now from Ocracoke, I hang golden okra in the window, sold there as Christmas ornaments, hung here with adoration and thanks. I dutifully recall my first taste of okra: too slimy to be high in any ranks. But okra worship begins in earnest with first frying in the old oil tank, golden crisp and simply heavenly. I don’t listen now to okra cranks. I stare at the golden okra and still wonder what she meant. I know that I am changing, but in directions to lament? I’m flinging the windows open, letting the breeze blow through. I’ll continue just as I am, and see if this room’s stuffy too!
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