The Hubs sauntered in after feeding the birds and squirrels with a question, “when do I need to set out the hummingbird and Oriole feeders?” “First of May is when they arrive,” I replied. I was already gearing up and bought the 2 biggest jars of grape jelly Meijer had last week. (No I don’t feed them my homemade grape jelly, it’s too much work to make it and I don’t want to spoil the Orioles by giving them the good stuff). “Oh, by the way,” he continued, “your rhubarb is up if you want to pick some.”

Memories flooded through me, and my mouth started watering (in the best way). I won’t say something crazy like I’ve had this obsession with rhubarb since I was born. Pretty clear I was about 6 when my lifelong devotion to this super/sour fruit began (I think it’s really a vegetable, but that doesn’t seem right). It was after we moved to 15th Street in 1955. I was almost 5. Our family of 5 moved into one of the oldest houses in town. My dad started remodeling and never stopped until he sold the place in 2005. Our lot wasn’t particularly wide (like most city lots except Rock Valley wasn’t a city, maybe 1,500 souls of mostly Dutch descent), but the backyard was deep. And it was all ours until you hit the alley that divided us from the backyards of the houses facing north on 16th street.

At the back of our lot was a huge double garage with a dirt floor that bordered the alley. Dad kept all kinds of tools and building supplies on a workbench that ran almost the width of the garage. He wasn’t super neat but always seem to know exactly where everything was when he needed it. In the northwest corner of our yard was a patch of rhubarb half the size of dad’s big garage. And it was then I discovered my love for this strange plant. (Ha, I do eat plant based foods).

Mom warned me, “The leaves are poisonous. If you want to eat rhubarb, bring the stalks in the house and I’ll cut off the tops, bottoms and peel it.” (as if I could eat just one-haha) “After the outside is peeled, the rhubarb is kind of wet. Your uncle Floyd and I ate rhubarb when we were little. Grandma Jantje (yon-chee) would give us a small dish with a bit of sugar in it. We’d dip the rhubarb in the sugar before we took a bite. Want to try some?” “Sure,” I said with my mouth full of drool. It smelled so good.

A new business had recently opened in Rock Valley. It was called a drive-in. You drove to the place, parked in the lot but didn’t get out of your car. The menu was printed on the side of the building. Usually a high school girl walked up to your car to take your order. She’d walk up to the window, hand the order to the cooks and a few minutes later she’d bring a heaping tray of food which she’d latch onto your partially lowered window. Dad would glance at the sandwiches and pass out the food. It was such a neat, new concept. Boiling ‘Hot August Nights’ (thanks Neil) and mom wouldn’t have to make our non-air-conditioned house any hotter. We’d just head over to the drive-in for supper. Or a dessert of soft serve ice cream after supper when we went for a ride to cool off.

This was an inspiration in our kid-friendly packed neighborhood. Let’s play ‘drive-in.’ We had a perfect spot in our backyard. Dad built a neat playhouse before we moved, complete with windows, door, even a chimney, which he loaded on a flatbed and moved to our new house. Our busy drive-in had the obligatory 3-C’s. Customers, cooks and carhops. A real pretend thriving business.

After learning how to trim rhubarb it became part of my daily diet all summer long, though not as good in July as in spring. The stalks get bigger and tougher. But over time there was a transformation in the way I ate rhubarb. I’m not sure how this particular change took place. Since we moved we had a lot of kids on our block. It might have been one of the Schmidt’s, Van Oort’s, Hamann’s or Beumer kids, or possibly my sibs Mona or Larry. However it came to be I’m not quite sure, but I stopped eating rhubarb with sugar.

It tasted so much better doused in salt. (For the record I’m not a salt eater, never have been. Don’t sprinkle it on baked potatoes, sweet corn or watermelon. However, rhubarb and French fries are my salt-free exceptions). We’d trim, peel and cut the rhubarb into bite size pieces. Grab a melmac bowl from mom’s cupboard, dump in the rhubarb, add some cold water and lots of salt. Let that marinate. Whatever you ordered at our state of the art drive-in, hot fudge sundae, hamburger and fries, chocolate milkshake, what came on your tray was a small bowl of dripping wet, salt infused, delicious rhubarb, sprinkled with more salt than you could shake a stick at. This is how we spent many days for a couple of our summers in the 1950’s.

After the Hubs and I eloped we moved frequently the first few years, but I don’t think we ever lived where we didn’t have a nice patch of rhubarb for me to munch on from April through mid summer. As I (slowly) learned to cook and bake, Rhubarb cake was one of my first recipes to become a favorite. When I couldn’t keep pace just eating fresh rhubarb with an especially large crop, I’d freeze bags of 4 cups of diced rhubarb so I could make the cake or a new recipe for bars during the winter.

A lovely couple, Ed & Phyl Hopper were on my list to visit a couple times a month for several years when I was parish visitor. One day they were laughing as I was reminiscing about my love for fresh rhubarb as a kid. Phyl piped up, “we’ve always enjoyed rhubarb sauce. I used to make it all the time when the kids were home. I’m surprised you don’t make it since you’re such a rhubarb fan.” Told her I’d never heard of cooking rhubarb to make a sauce (wouldn’t it have to have a lot of sugar)? The next time they were on my visiting list I brought them a package of diced rhubarb from my freezer. Dang, you’d thought I’d catered them a 5 course meal! Plus she still had to cook it. Four cups of rhubarb. Frozen. Who knew how happy that could make someone? From then on I brought along a package of rhubarb, it was no big deal.

Ed and Phyl ended up moving a hundred miles east to the Lansing area to be near their daughter as they grew more frail. When I drove to Jackson to visit my kids, Ed & Phyl’s assisted living place was 10 miles out of the way, so I often stopped to see them. They were taking most their meals in the dining room instead of cooking, so I never brought them rhubarb again which always made me feel bad. I should have learned how to make sauce and brought some for them, but I never did, just grabbed some cookies or sweet breads out of the freezer.

I’m constantly thankful for the amazing/mundane moments I remember and forever grateful for my super sized storage bin which resides from my nose northward. While much of the space is taken up with useless dribble, the silly, heartfelt, poignant, painful, tear producing life events remain vitally important to me. Many have been there over 6 decades, others like the Hopper’s only a decade or 2. (While what I ate for lunch yesterday is forever gone. Meh, I’ve still got the pertinent stuff). You might want to heed this advice. I’m not suggesting you need to blog, but I’m strongly encouraging you to write your story down. Buy a cheap notebook, jot down memories you had when you were young or something significant that happened last month. The special times way back with your grandparents, classmates, kids, friends, spouse and parents. The not-so-great days when all you could muster was a shower and clean clothes. Start documenting the days of your lives. For when we can no longer remember…

Mom started an ongoing, amazing project with my kids when they were very small. Her first priority was only inviting one kid at a time to stay with her and Dad. That way, my one-of-three was the center of attention while they were in Rock Valley. She was convinced each were the brightest toddlers in the universe (which is a pretty standard behavior and belief of most grandparents). How they became so gifted with such superior intellect was never questioned. She knew from my report cards I was not cut from the same cloth as those individuals belonging to Mensa International.

Mom kept most everything, the most-organized-neatest-bordering-hoarder known to mankind. Worksheets from school, articles with my name in the school newspaper or The Bee, the dress I attempted to sew in Home Ec (the reality was actually 90% machined stitched by my teacher, Miss Weiner. Thanks for the help and passing me that year). Which is why it’s puzzling after Mom passed away in 2004 there were a few items I was expecting to see again but never found. One was a red wool jacket from Tijuana she bought me when we went to California in 1960. It had hand stitched appliqués and beadwork and fit this 9 year old for a couple years. After I outgrew it I never saw it again so assume she gave it to someone, which was not like her at all. With sentimental things, she was a saver-not a giver-awayer.

The other perplexing thing which disappeared could fill a 3 ring binder. Twice. She got on this kick when Shannon, our first born was about 16 months and started verbalizing, using the vocabulary of gifted kindergartners. (She was advanced for her age. Guess parents think the same as most grandparents right)? Mom started filling a notebook titled, “Conversations with Shannon.” Brilliant, hilarious, quote worthy quips from their littles (which moms and dads should write down but are too busy, frazzled or tired). But this is the kind of stuff mom, ‘Mimi’ to my kids had been waiting for her whole life.

But when Dad, Mona and I cleaned out their house neither the Mexican jacket or Mom’s conversations with my kids were found. Hard to believe, she must have thrown them out. Or I missed finding them. She had some clever hiding places but these reams of paper would not be something she would have hidden. More likely sitting in a knitting basket next to her chair so she could peruse them over and over while laughing/crying about their content and the sweet memories they invoked. Whatever the reason, I did not find them.

A couple weeks ago my granddaughter Ariana asked if I could pick up her and my 4 year old great-granddaughter Jovi after they dropped her car off to be detailed (real meaning, shoveled, shampooed, hosed, vacuumed and have 3 layers of dirt and dust scraped from the dash and windshield). As adorable as those 2 are, both have issues keeping a car tidy, so they were letting someone else do the dirty job. Where’s Mike Rowe when you need him? I zoomed right past the place, had to turn around, waiting 2 minutes to drive 100 feet before hitting the right entrance.

Ari lugged Jovi’s car seat (which needed a thorough scrubbing as bad as the car, but even a guy testing the waters of new business has his limits) to my car. Mommy snaked her way around my backseat, securing Jovi in her car seat and plops a small backpack on the floor and goes back to talk to the detailer (now on a backhoe). Jovi gives me a 100 watt smile and says, “hi grandma, you found us. Where’s grandpa?” (Guess we are forever known as a twosome, joined at the hip). “He’s waiting for us to come and have supper at our house.” “Ok,” she says dubiously, further confirming we obviously always need to be in the same place at the same time.

She leans over as far as her car seat belt allows and snags one strap of her backpack. “Do you have any snackies for me?” “Ah no, supper is ready and we don’t want to ruin your appetite. We’re gonna eat as soon as we get to our house.” “Can we check the magic drawer first?” She pronounces it do-war. (This tradition started a couple years ago when I had been on a trip and brought her back a t-shirt. I didn’t think she’d be very excited getting clothes so I added some M &M’s and a couple of circus peanuts to a snack bag on top of the t-shirt in a drawer of my dresser) “Sure but if there’s anything in the drawer you have to wait until we have supper and then ask mommy first, ok?”

Jovi unzips her backpack, grabs a small notepad and a miniature magic marker. (My jeep, yikes). Just then Ari slides in the front seat and says, “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to write or draw in grandma’s car Jovi. Can you wait until we get to grandma’s house?” “No, I’ll be careful. Will you take the lid off my marker please?” (Who can say no when she’s so polite, right)?

It’s only 3 miles to our house. About half way there, Miss quiet-as-a-mouse pipes up with, “I’m done with your letter grandma. Here, take it.” “Thanks so much Jovi, I didn’t know you were writing me a letter. But I’m driving and can’t look at it right now.” One minute later we’re at a stop sign, so Ari and I glance at the note that’s resting in my drink holder. Mommy quietly pointed out a logical sequence of letters (when you’re 4) to me. With a little squinting you could see what she was trying to convey.

“Wow Jovi, this looks awesome, especially since I was driving on a bumpy road. You’re getting so good at writing your letters. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks grandma. Read the letter to me.” A ‘gotcha moment’! Well played Jovi. My mini-Mensa snookered her grandma. I should have started documenting these snippets of conversations with my grands and great-grands years ago. While there should be a hundred conversations in a notebook by now, this is one of the few that’s written down. But this cute one just popped into my head from about 7 years ago.

Our grandson Graham was about 4 and spending the day at our house. We were making cookies for him to take home. I kept a large bag of assorted chips in the cupboard, milk chocolate, semi-sweet, white chocolate, mini morsels, butterscotch chips. When I opened the bag so Graham could pick what kind of chips he wanted in his cookies he said, “how come you have so many bags of chocolate chips?” “Hmmm, I like to keep a variety so when I decide to make something that calls for chips, I already that kind in the house. I really don’t like to run out of stuff.” His eyes were as big as saucers, he lowered his voice, glanced around and conspiratorially whispered, “does grandpa know how many chocolate chips you have in the house?”

During the grind of every day life, oftentimes it’s the little things that count. We need to pay attention to those. And remember them…

Michelle, one of my Facebook friends (I helped care for her son Nick when he was a baby in FCC’s daycare) posted a picture with both of her boys (Gabe & Nick) the other day. They were creating new ‘family moments’ and having the best time in their new hot tub. That one picture flooded me with warm, watery memories which started 35 years ago.

• 

We were living in Davenport (1981-1986) and had some good friends named Mike and Paula. Mike sold tools to John at JI Case. We were pretty close in age but we’d been married longer and our kids were older. Their oldest son was about the same age as our youngest. We had supper at each other’s house and Paula was nearly as addicted to sunbathing as I was. On beautiful summer days I’d call in a lunch order at Yen Ching’s, ($3.35 for Mongolian Beef with an egg roll-Paula always got some chicken dish) load Adam in the car (Josh and Shannon were old enough to be left alone for a couple hours), pick up the food and head to Paula’s. The rugrats would lunch on PBJ, or Mac and cheese (not Chinese, you think we were made outta money)? Jenny still took naps but Adam and Mikey would play outside while the 2 sun goddesses devoured our Chinese food and soaked up some serious vitamin D. Paula was petite, dark and very cute. We were good friends although I was a bit intimidated by her. No grown woman should be that adorable.

It was more fun to go to their house at night as a family, especially during the long, relentless, miserable winters in Iowa. They had a new hot tub, plus VCR’s (although I think Mike decided Beta Max was going to sink the VCR) had just been introduced so we could rent a movie for the kids, while the grownups enjoyed the hot tub. Temperatures would be hovering below freezing (sometimes below zero) when we donned swimming suits and stocking caps, tossed our robes onto frozen chairs and slunk into 102 degree water. Never failed, after a half hour Mike and Hubs would be too hot and full of piss and vinegar (ok, beer). They’d hop out of the tub, all white with red splotchy skin and run for the nearest snow pile and dive in. All of a sudden there’s 2 abominable snowmen squealing like pre-pubescent girls, racing their way back to the tub without slipping or freezing to the patio. Crazy goofballs.

We really missed Mike and Paula when we moved to Michigan in early ‘87, (ironically to the town where Paula was born and grew up). We saw them a couple times when they were visiting relatives but basically lost touch for a couple decades. Why do I let that happen? I should have tried harder to keep a connection with them. (And a lot of other friends too).

I’ve talked about this before but it’s pertinent to the story. So in 1990 the Hubs and I did something astonishing. On May 5th of that year we both stopped smoking-cold turkey. Whoo-ee, tough days for awhile. Months of unrest and uncivilized behavior, but eventually he got over it. Haha, I might have had a few issues too. But for the first time in our married life we were non-smokers. (Our kids thanked us profusely).

Back in the ‘90’s we weren’t much for traveling. All of our vacation time was spent going back to Iowa. John’s dad had passed away but his mom and my folks were there, all of our siblings and most of our nieces and nephews. Yet we wanted to acknowledge that quitting this ugly, smelling, disgusting, costly, unhealthy habit, should deserve some special recognition.

By the time we decided to quit, Hubs was burning through 2 packs a day plus a pack for me. I think a carton was about 11 bucks, but Hubs never bought his smokes that way (and I refused to use my grocery money to buy his). He’d stop at this drive-thru gas station/party store and order 2 packs on his way to work (which cost significantly more buying by the carton. We were easily wasting a couple grand a year (which we could ill afford). I was anal about not running out of cigarettes, but that didn’t bother him. He just run to Buff’s Party store a mile down the road at 9 at night. He’d rarely ask to bum a cigarette from me. He wasn’t fussy about what he smoked, if they were out of Marlboro’s he’d just get a pack of Winston. On the other hand, if a store was out of Tareyton’s, I’d go to another store. He hated Tareyton’s, said they were as dry as a popcorn fart. Whatever. Didn’t want to share with him anyway.

A few months later we decided a hot tub was a great way to celebrate our momentous achievement to be enjoyed by the whole family. We searched long and hard for the perfect hot tub. Size and price mattered. The business we were dealing with in Brooklyn invited our family to come after they closed one night to try out tubs until we found the ONE. Hubs had already poured a large new patio and added a couple sections of privacy fence because our backyard was highly visible.

We all loved the hot tub. Joshua invited his high school friends over (mostly girls) after football and basketball games. Invariably the next morning John would lift the cover only to discover the scummy remnants of makeup, lotion and hair products from the teens. John asked the girls to rinse off before they got in. It was a lot of work to empty, clean, fill and heat it back up. We had recently acquired some new-fangled technology and were quite enamored with it. A cordless phone. Sure enough, a few weeks later John was hunting for the phone and found it on the bottom of the hot tub. Argh, kids. Shannon had Ariana and was attending MSU full time but still found opportunities to come home (30 miles) and play with Ari in the hot tub. But no one enjoyed the hot tub more than Adam.

He was 10 and assumed it was his personal swimming hole. While I thought the best outside temperature to use the hot tub was around freezing, Adam used it daily-year round. In the summer we’d just turn the heater off. He’d snorkel, dive under to save Ninja turtles, Star Wars action figures or see how long he could hold his breath. We bought a floating table, spill proof, double insulated cups. He could always find ways to stay amused in the hot tub. When he was sick of playing alone, he’d talk Josh into playing games with their plastic coated deck of cards. They spent hours in that tub.

The hot tub proved to be a fabulous reward for the whole family. We were in a quandary in 1994 when we were moving 150 miles west. We were buying a house on a lake near Lake Michigan. The house was fairly new and had a small deck off the back. But the back of the house faced the lake and we didn’t want our view blocked by a hot tub. By this time Josh was in college, Shannon was earning her Master’s degree and Adam was beginning 10th grade. So we sold it before we left Jackson. But the years of hot tubbing with the kids remains high on our list of great memories…

I do some odd things on the second day of seven. Every week. It’s a sort of a cleansing, and I start thinking/anticipating about it on Monday. It’s a ritual. This week’s Tuesday started out when I noticed 2 jars of Parmesan cheese in the fridge. That shit drives me nuts. Not the cheese, but having duplicates in the fridge opened at the same time. I blame the Hubs because of a serious affliction he’s had during our married life. He cannot ‘spot/find’ anything in the fridge ranging in size from a gallon of milk to one lone jalapeño in its own zip lock bag in the veggie drawer. If he can’t find what he’s looking for in 1.2 seconds, it’s definitely not there and we need a new jar/container of whatever. Sigh. I combined the 2 jars and felt a wonderful sense of accomplishment. Ah, neater and more space. (It’s the little things in life folks).

I thought the empty Parmesan jar might be good for something besides the garbage so I tossed it in a sink of hot, soapy water. Twenty minutes later, sweat poring off my forehead, the ‘stickum’ had not disintegrated from where the label was attached with 8 dollars worth of gorilla glue. I could have bought a set of 6 glass jars with 18 interchangeable lids in less time (and work). Why do I fart around endlessly with stuff like this? My bottle of Goo-Gone was gasping and pushing more air than goo spray so I gotta add that on my grocery list. Better yet, check under the sink first to see if I’ve already purchased a spare. Yup, brand new bottle. Combined those 2 bottles with one teaspoon leftover-which I couldn’t throw away. Argh. Dumped it in a throw away foil cake pan and nestled in the Parmesan jar to rid itself of its sticky residue sometime during my lifetime. I hope. It’s sitting on my counter which is looking cluttered, just what I’m trying to avoid on purge Tuesday.

Noticed when checking the nether regions beneath my sink, I spotted twin bottles of Easy Off window cleaner. One with 2 T. left, the other dang near full. Tried my best to combine them, alas the full one would only hold one of those 2 tablespoons. You know it, couldn’t throw that minuscule amount away either, so I ran around the house like a deranged cleaning woman, washing all the glass on every antique curved glass china closet, bookcase and secretary in the house. By then the bottle had to be pointed heavenward so the tube could suck up that last drop. It’s not that my antiques didn’t need the (Jovi) fingerprints, dust and grease removed. It’s just that an hour ago the simple act of spotting an extra Parmesan container, or the Easy-Off squirt bottles ends up making more work than either were worth. And yet I can’t stop myself.

I’m not against throwing stuff out. I throw junk away ALL THE TIME. That’s why it’s called my Tuesday purge. Tuesday is garbage day at our little house and I’m forever trying to find ways to make our itty-bitty space appear bigger and neater. I’d say I go through the fridge with a fine tooth comb, but just talking about my fridge and a hair comb in the same sentence makes me gag. But I am pretty thorough. Leftovers are particularly susceptible on Tuesday’s. My mind walks backwards trying to determine exactly what night we had that delectable supper. If I reach day number 4, it goes in the garbage.

On Tuesday I want a fresh roll of toilet paper hanging (underneath, what’s wrong with you people)? Any sliver of bar soap, liquid soap, shampoo dispenser or toothpaste tube looking as flat as me goes in the garbage. Kleenex boxes that lift up when you try to pull out the next tissue is emptied and dumped. Any leftover Kleenex are stored neatly on top of new box. Newspaper ads, TV guide with listings until Sunday just might make the dumpster 5 days early. I got those programs memorized. “John, please eat that lone banana. Why not have it with the last serving of Raisin Bran and douse it with a good helping of 2% or I gotta make rice pudding with the leftover milk. Don’t want to waste the milk but the jug’s going in the garbage today.” You can see how this has become problematic right?

Hubs has his own chores on Tuesday’s. He brings the dumpster down to the end of the driveway. Our garbage service comes quite late in the day and I don’t want John hauling it down there too early because-something else might turn up ‘pritnear empty’ like the Bath & Bodyworks foam soap dispenser. If we each use the facilities and wash our hands a couple more times before 2 that sucker’s gone! I need to utilize every penny’s worth of my $27.10 garbage bill each month.

John’s duties include emptying every small trash bin from various rooms in the house and replacing with brand new, repurposed Meijer bags. If you don’t have a storage bag filled with bags for your little garbage receptacles, we are not in the same economical class/social circle. There might be a room or 2 that’s only yielded an errant fallen leaf from a plant or some ploujes (Dutch word pronounced plue-she’s) which are pieces of lint/fuzzy from socks picked off the carpet. These are not exempt from the Purge. Hubs empties them into another, fuller Meijer bag (yes we conserve) so we’ve got 7 more days before we see how full we can get those slackers. (Hubs thinks I manufacture garbage. I think I’ve just got an eagle eye and can spot a bit of trash much easier that he’s able. Yes, it’s a gift).

Some weeks there’s not much in our garbage on Tuesday, other weeks, if I’ve been canning or on a ‘baking spree,’ (that’s what Mom used to call it) Hubs would be hard pressed to fit in another toothpick before he hears the Emmons truck rumbling down the street. He’s not one to leave our dumpster down by the road, so hauls it back to our convenient spot by the back door. For a couple days there’s not a lot to be thrown out (we’re only on day 2 from leftover suppers and I’m pretty good about snagging those dishes for my next day’s lunch, but it won’t be long before I’m giving the eagle eye around the house, gearing up for next Tuesday’s purge…