Getting to the root of the problem

As we already know, change does not come easily to me. And I do have a tendency of slightly over-reacting to it. So it was not surprising that the sudden appearance of a few white paint marks on our road had me screaming into the house to alert Brad that something outside our sphere of influence was occurring and demand that he make it stop immediately.

Imagine what the stack of impending road closure signs leaning next to the utility poles book-ending our property did to my sanity.

Oh...hello, excavator.

Why my husband hasn't returned to higher learning to pursue a medical degree simply to write me prescriptions is beyond my understanding.

So while I was curled in the fetal position, Brad was out investigating the root cause of my road rage. Apparently, our county is so flush with extra cash that they've decided that pot-holes are chump-change. The real money is in the cow tunnels. Specifically...my cow tunnel.

To be fair...it has been over thirty years since a cow has traversed the tunnel. At what point does one downgrade the status from "tunnel" to "culvert?"

More to the point, for that same thirty years, a ragtag rhubarb patch has sat atop that tunnel like a jaunty little hat...weathering
road salt, midnight thievery (Do I dare say "stalking?"), and my utter inability and complete disinterest in growing green things. 

Oh Amy...get over yourself. It's just rhubarb. Grow some more, girl.

But wait. You don't understand. This is a legacy patch. Passed down through generations.

Let me introduce you to Gramps the way I was introduced to Gramps.

Art Mosiman. Mason City, Iowa. Suspenders-wearing...master-gardener...lady-charmer...owned the dance floor.

Brad and I, newly married, met him at Perkins for breakfast.

I, of course, ordered a piece of lemon meringue pie.

Brad (early in the marriage so what did he know?) frowned at me and said that we were ordering breakfast.

Gramps intervened before I had a chance to react (because you know there was going to be one heck of a reaction). "If your girl wants pie, you get her pie," Art Mosiman scolded his grandson. Gramps then went to further school his prodigy by ordering me, not just a slice, but the ENTIRE pie. 

Yup. You guessed it. My rhubarb patch can trace its origins to Gramps' garden in the midwest. 

I was going to have to chain myself to the cow tunnel.

"Or," Brad suggested, "we could move the patch."

Thirty years and his decision-making skills have NOT improved.

In fact, they may have gotten worse.

We started by up-ending the giant flower box Brad constructed in response to my impetuous, not-well-thought-out, fleeting wish to clothe the cow tunnel in a robe of Morning Glory vines. I told him how my friend Katriel had Morning Glory blossoms as large as dinner plates. Before I knew it, we were planting flowers that failed to meet my description or expectations. Three microscopic flowers in varying shades of dull white. When I (naturally) blamed Katriel for this disaster, she claimed that we needed better fertilizer and then thoughtfully provided it for us. Great, now I had to mix up my dirt with animal excrement before planting. Then, I accidentally read the instructions on the seed packet and saw that you are supposed to soak your seeds before planting. Super! Another step. And you wonder why chaining myself to the cow tunnel seemed to be a better option?

Brad's next step was to have me sift the soil for Morning Glory seedling spouts like I was panning for gold. We (He) meticulously re-planted every single little sprout. This...after we moved the 1,000 pound flower box all over our property to find a place as perfect as a cow tunnel to showcase our floral failure.

The rhubarb didn't realize that they were renting and were quite resistant to the eviction process. Brad made the mistake of cutting off the stalks and not factoring in a wife who was unable to discern the north and south end of a rhubarb plant cutting. I was given the job of spreading soil evenly around each bundle (after Brad turned them the right way up) and then Brad re-did it after pointing out air pockets I'd left (so the roots could breathe). He also had me go retrieve the pick-ax and when the ax part slid down the handle and broke my hand, I called my mother to tattle on him as he acted like he didn't care. "You do realize that you're holding your cellphone in your broken hand, right?" he said, unearthing another series of upside-down rhubarb plants.

I changed my mind. I was going to chain Brad to the cow tunnel.

It was done. We (Brad) had salvaged what we could. Come Tuesday, the cow tunnel...our Narnian crossing...an echo chamber resonating with the screaming laughter of my little girls...would be removed. Our landscape would be forever changed.

Brad and I gazed at our re-planted rhubarb. They'd survived the journey from Gramps' garden to Wyoming County thirty years ago. Surely, they could survive being moved thirty feet. "We did what we could," Brad said, finally, "I hope they make it."

"Don't worry," I tried to reassure him. "Worse case scenario, they end up as vegetables."