My mother had a good day today – she attacked the dandelions with her long digger thing and then plopped them into a bucket with the extended grabber tool. She says she looks at them and thinks, “Take that!” before she delivers the death blow.

Oh, and Mrs. Feller has rhubarb so I will be cooking it up. The first time I saw rhubarb was when I would run out of the house and head up the path to the barn that ran along side the garden. I think it scared me; my dad probably had told me it was poisonous. I also thought I didn’t like it for eating; I know I got this in my head because I thought rhubarb was an ugly name.

Then over a decade ago my mother made what we came to call rhubarb pudding pie and I discovered I loved rhubarb. Mother has the rhubarb growing in Amish horses –t, which is what is recommended, although it doesn’t have to be Amish.

Now I find out Mrs. Feller has it in the corner of the fence across the way. Woo hoo. Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb. Oops . . . don’t mind me. It’s probably some effect of the hair dye.

My granddaughter –  a sixth grader is charged with constructing a vehicle that will run at least five meters (I am definitely still a yard and inch person.) on the thrust provided by two nine-inch balloons. I claim heroine status: I got the wheel problem solved while she was in the throes of despair and agony and letting me know all about it.

She had the balloon part producing but now something isn’t working right. I have made some suggestions but she shrugs them off. You can’t tell her anything. That is what my father once said to me, “Nobody could ever tell you anything.” I’m sorry, Daddy; I was such a jerk.

Well, here I go . . . into the fray.