Grass Widows and Okra

 The Grass Widows are blooming on the basalt plateaus along the Columbia River. Little shards of fragmented blue sky floating and swirling in snow-melt rivulets. A something to fill any vacant spots in anyones heart. But, standing in awe of the tableau before me I wondered just how necessary, or important, are any of us in this sad, and often desolate world. Humans seem to be the okra in the stew.

Let me explain the ‘okra’ reference.

After my escape from the Air Force in 1964 I shared an apartment (Cedar Crest) in South El Monte with a good friend who had also recently been released from the Air Farce. A party time ensued as we attempted to distance ourselves from, and erase any dark atmospheric aura the military might have stained us with. And we were poor, like most of the other dwellers of the complex.

Well, trying to reduce our daily expenses we took to going around to other apartments (after their assumed dinner time) and asking for any leftover food they might have. Whatever they offered we added to our pot. As a result, every dinner became an unknown surprise, but something we, and many other apartment dwellers looked forward to. We kept the ‘Hobo’ stew happily simmering for several days/weeks(?).

But it all came to an abrupt end one evening. Something was amiss, something in the bubbling pot felt slimy, and was not particularly palatable. It had crawled across our collective tongues and found wanting. Our evolutionary and revolutionary dinner stew was brought to a sudden and final end. Nothing could redeem us.

We examined, analyzed, and finally decided the ‘Trojan Horse’ that had brought down our nightly communal dinners was the okra!

I eat just about everything but still can’t bring myself to eat okra.