Rhubarb

25 Rhubarb first draft 4/04 2:00 PM

Do you think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?

Spring is here, I thought, as I gazed out of my apartment window. It's sunny. It stopped raining. The wind is calm, and the sky is blue. I checked the weather app on my phone. Fifty-five degrees. What did we do before weather apps? Well, I guess we looked at a thermometer screwed outside of a window. We don't need to do that anymore. We have apps.

I put on my jacket, baseball cap, and grabbed my cane and camera. This will be a walking day. I stepped out of my apartment door. I looked and there she was.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gibson.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I answered as nicely as I could. “I'm going for a walk. Would you like to join me?”

“Oh my, no,” she answered. “I can't walk much anymore.”

“Well how do you know if you don't try?” I asked.

“Oh no,” she answered. “But you have a nice walk. Richie is outside.”

Really? How does he do that? Sure enough, I walked out the complex door and there he was, leaning on his '60 Olds.

“Hello Mr. Gibson!” hollered Richie. “Want to go for a ride? Swayze Acres?”

“That would be nice, Richie. But why are you here?”

“Just waiting for you, Mr. Gibson,” he answered with a big smile.

“OK,” I said. Whatever, I thought.

I opened the passenger door and slid in, just as Richie got in the driver's side. I love these old cars. Nice, big doors.

“Swayze Acres?” asked Richie.

“Sure. That works,” I answered. I don't know where else I would go. The village or the acres. Toss a coin.

Richie drove along, commenting on the weather and how nice of a day it was. And it was. But at my age, I'll take whatever weather it throws at me. Richie took a right on Lea Avenue. He dropped me off by McFarlane's house, as he always did. This is, like, a routine now.

“Here ya go, Mr. Gibson,” said Richie.

“Thank you,” I responded. “I really appreciate these rides.”

“I know you do,” said Richie. “Just doing my job.”

I got out of the F-85 and watched as Richie pulled away. Good kid. He was raised right. I should ask him what his last name is. All these rides and I don't even know his name. What does he do besides sit outside the aparment complex waiting for me? He said he has a job at Behr-Manning, but I don't even know what he does there. I need to fine tune my social skills. You would think that after sixty-nine years, I would have this. I guess I don't. Age isn't the problem here. Being a dumb ass is. You again? Yes, me again. Who were you expecting? No one. Why don't you just shut the hell up for once? Fine. Fine.

I didn't see anyone around. What day is it? I have no idea. It might be a school day because I don't see any kids.

I walked slowly down Lea Avenue, stopping only to take a photo here and there. I passed my parents' house and I was next to Bombard's. Mr. Bombard was washing his maroon '63 Chevy. He looked up and waved.

“Think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?” he hollered to me.

I don't know anything about rain and rhubarb.

“Uh... maybe?” I shouted to him.

Mr. Bombard just laughed and kept washing his car. He's a nice man, Mr. Bombard. I always liked him. I think he was a salesman. Sold pharmaceuticals or something.

Mr. Bombard's brother, John, was my seventh grade English teacher. He was a nice man too. Good people, the Bombards.

Later, Mr. and Mrs. Bombard would more to the village and open an insurance business.

I wonder if he knows that?