By Gretta Parkinson
I?ll eat anything. Seriously ? olives, pickles, escargot ? from everyday vegetables to unpronounceable ethnic dishes, I am no disrespecter of foods. Over the years my family and friends have taken up the practice of piling their unwanted nuts, roots and garnishes on my plate because they know I won?t let it go to waste.
But I hate rhubarb. It?s the only food I won?t eat. I hate the taste, I hate the smell, and I especially hate that my mom tries to disguise it in the form of a pie. Tender, flaky crust notwithstanding, no amount of sugar can convince me to put rhubarb of any form into my mouth.
Strangely enough, it is my contempt for rhubarb pie that causes me anxiety as Memorial Day approaches each year. Let me explain.
For the past ten years or so, we Parkinson?s have piled into the family SUV and headed south from Salt Lake City to my Great Uncle Verl?s house in Northeast Provo for the Clark Family Memorial Day Rhubarb Extravaganza. Imagine this: nothing to eat or drink but rhubarb pie, rhubarb punch or rhubarb casserole with corn flakes. So as not to make a scene, I?ll fill up on meringue cookies, spoon some magenta slop onto a plastic plate and proceed to reintroduce myself to my extended family. Then I?ll dump the goo when it?s time to leave and thank the patron saint of family reunions that they only happen once a year.
I know it?s ridiculous. Who dreads a holiday because they don?t like the food? Do people boycott Christmas because they think fruitcake is gross? Do they go hungry on Thanksgiving because yams and cranberry sauce don?t tickle their fancies? Of course not. But I spent my childhood resenting Memorial Day because it went hand in hand with the only food I wouldn?t eat.
I haven?t heard anything about a gathering this year. Probably because recently, at the tender age of 84, my Great Uncle Verl passed away. Now he is buried at Provo?s Eastlawn Cemetery along with his parents, brother and nephew.
What I didn?t mention before was the other part of the Memorial Day family tradition. Before anyone even mentions rhubarb, we meet at the cemetery with lilies and carnations to decorate the graves of our loved ones. Family members will share recollections of the deceased with those of us who were too young to know them while my mother?s older siblings recall the circumstances of their baby brother?s tragic death.
But I was always so busy begrudging rhubarb that I overlooked the sacred purpose of the holiday. More than a three-day weekend and more than an excuse for barbecues nationwide, Memorial Day was established for the specific purpose of honoring the soldiers who died while serving their country. Both veterans of World War II, my Grandpa Dal and Uncle Verl exemplified the highest level of loyalty: the willingness to die for their country. One day out of 365 is the very least I can give out of admiration for true American patriots.
For us, Memorial Day is a solemn gathering. It usually makes my grandma cry. But we always leave uplifted by the memories of those who went before and grateful for the contact we have with those who are still around.
This year, I think I?ll eat a slice of rhubarb pie for Uncle Verl.