Yes, special things do happen in mid Michigan...

Today Evan and I drove to Lansing Airport to pick Andrew up. Andrew had been in DC since Thursday, looking at dissertation-related microfilm at the Library of Congress.

It's a gorgeous late spring day here today: sunshine, few clouds, no humidity. Even the drive to the airport (not too long, only an hour away or so) seemed to fly by.

On the way home, we stopped at Uncle John's Cider Mill so Evan wouldn't have to sit in the car for another hour straight. Evan played in the enormous sandbox and checked out the kid-size wooden train. Dada kept an eye on him while Mama went wine-tasting in the Fruit House Winery. Let me preface my next story by saying that Uncle John's is a moneypit, the "country" charm works especially well on suburban girls like me: I've only spent a significant amount of time there once before, earlier this fall, and I walked away with four bottles of wine, two loaves of bread, and some other treats. All made on-site, understand, so you gotta support your local growers and stuff...

Anyway, today wasn't much different. This time I walked away with one bottle of wine (let's hear it for restraint!), a plastic-squeezy bear of Michigan raspberry honey, a loaf of apple bread... and two pounds of fresh rhubarb. That last item came to me completely free.

On my way into the Fruit House Winery, an older farmer-y gentleman called out to me, "Hello! How are you today!" We chatted about the weather briefly, he wandered into the winery as well. We continued talking as I tasted.

Me: Hey, you don't happen to know where I can get some rhubarb, do you? Is it even the season, anyway?

Farmer: It's in season now. I mean, we have some here...

Me: Oh? Can I buy it in the shop here, like the asparagus?

Farmer: We have some here, but we don't grow it commercially, just in our private garden.

Me (must be looking dejected): Oh.

Farmer: They certainly should have it in the supermarkets.

Me: I've looked and looked... they don't even have it at Meijer. (Farmer finishes his "sample" of Pinot Gris, smiles, and leaves. Returns with a plastic shopping bag and a long serrated knife).

Farmer: When you finish tasting, don't rush now, you can follow me out to our garden and I'll cut you some.

Me (I finish my wine): Excellent!

Evan, Andrew, and I follow the behind the old farmer's golf cart for three or four minutes. We drive across the entire Uncle John's orchard, and end up in what looks like a pile of weeds near a house. The farmer motions me out of my car.

We chat as he cuts the rhubarb for me-- "Here you go, just another handful there..."

Me: Well, let's go on back down and weigh this, and we can see how much I owe you.

Farmer: No, it's on me.

Me (stunned): Are you sure?

Farmer: Yeah. I'm Uncle John, by the way.

(In my head: this is hilarious... so quaint... this is the kind of stuff people travel to fucking IRELAND for... and come to find out it happens right here in my own backyard. Ain't rhubarb sweet?)