Rhubarb and Kittens

I was eleven years old and the day was hot and dusty. A day made for chewing on stalks of grass and drinking lemonade. It was the first time I'd seen and tasted rhubarb. Every season when the weather first gets warm and humid, I can't help but think about that day. And I can't have Rhubarb without thinking of that mattered-eye kitten.

I was in grade school and life on a farm was something that I longed to have. I loved animals and I was at the age where farm chores seemed like fun, not work. I preferred to be barefoot and the dirtier I got, the cooler I felt. I was afraid of nothing. Put me on a horse with no saddle and I'd hang on to the mane and squeeze my little knees into the mare's sides and ride as long as she'd let me. I'd bounce up and down against the horse's back as she would trot and prance through mud and then loosen up my grip as she made the beautiful transition from bumping to a smooth full on run.

It was hot that day - even for a kid that loved being outside. After dinner, we went out to the pasture to walk the top of the fence. I feared falling inside and having the bull chase me, but the thrill of the danger won out and I walked the entire length, back and forth almost hoping I would lose my balance and fall so I could scramble up as fast as I could, heart racing.

Finally bored with the fence walking, we hopped down and strolled into the barn. The hay smelled sweet and the barn wood dry. Little rays of sun sliced through the wood slats and cut a laser of illuminated dust in the otherwise gray light. We gave bottles of milk to the calves who were "bla-a-ating" to be fed and monkeyed around with some farm tools before we meandered out the front doors and down the rocky driveway.

It felt even hotter on the dry gravel road and our feet kicked up clouds of dust that stuck to the milk that had spilled on our legs. The horseflies were annoying, trying to bite at our sweet, sweaty skin.

There, near the ditch across the street, the leafy plants with the long, purpley celery stems came into view. "What are those?" I asked.

"That's just rhubarb," Beth said matter-of-factly, "Try some. It's good."

It didn't look good, but my sense of adventure took over and I broke off a stalk, cleaned it with my dirty shirt and chomped the end off. It took only a second to register that it was sour. So sour that it stung the hollow part between my jaw and my ear and I spit it on the ground.

That's when we heard the mewls coming from up near the house. We followed the sound to a lilac bush next to the front porch where we found three tiny kittens. They were black and grey striped and probably about six weeks old. We drug them out from their little hideaway to cuddle and play with them, but we noticed one in particular didn't have her eyes open. It didn't look right. She was trying to open them, but had all this dried, crusty matter over them. We scooped her up and brought her to the house where Grandma Schaendorf fetched a warm, wet washcloth and slowly began wiping the kitten's eyes. After her tender care, the little girl that we named Crusty opened her blue eyes and blinked a few times as if thanking us. Delighted with our new friend we took her back outside to join her siblings where we sat for several minutes playing with them.

The mosquitos were starting to swarm in the long grass and we eventually got tired of slapping them away and headed back home to get cleaned up.

While this kind of day doesn't sound quite as appealing to me as it did at one time, I love reliving the events over and over in my head.