I have a thing about rhubarb pie.
It’s deep-seeded, to be sure, since I haven’t had a bite of that particular pastry since I was a child. My paternal grandmother made them. She died when I was ten. 
So when the LitForum‘s Writer’s Exercise  for March was to “write a scene in which the emphasis is on the consumption of food. Make use of the senses of taste and smell. Complement those senses by also drawing on sight, feel and mood. The MC  in this scene has stopped whatever he/she has been doing before and is pausing for a moment,” I knew immediately mine would be about rhubarb pie.
I’ve never been a gardener. In fact, I usually tell folks that “I don’t kill plants; I just make ’em wish they were dead.”
So, it’s fitting that, as I plan what flowers I’ll be planting this spring, I’m thinking about Rose, who also wasn’t much of a gardener.
Old Ike once said, “Farming looks mighty easy when your plow is a pencil and you’re a thousand miles from the corn field.” 
Of course, he wasn’t talking
It’s raining today. So my mind is on April showers. The old children’s riddle comes to mind: “April showers bring May flowers, but what do May flowers bring?”
I started reading the 1929/1930 Iowa farm wife’s diary I have. You won’t believe what those showers brought to the farm… Continue reading
Harold finds this hysterical. But then, humor was much simpler in 1930.
Rose has been feeling a tad sympathetic with all those on the receiving end of this late winter / early spring snowstorm. She knows just how that feels… Continue reading
Pardon me while I get maudlin…
Yesterday, I read this in the 1930 diary I have: Had 16 little piglets today, but the old mother laid on 4 and killed them.
This made me sad. Especially if you’ve seen the cute piglet pictures I posted here. But it also got me thinking about how common death is, especially on a farm. And especially in the 1930s.
Well, it’s not a giant leap from cute piggies dying to human mortality… Continue reading