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.