I am very optimistic.
They are—as the consensus here indicates—uncommonly forgiving plants. For example, my mother purchased “Canada Red” and “Crimson Red” crowns a number of years back. They were no great shakes: rather moldy-looking in fact. Being busy with something else at the time, I stuck them in a less-than-ideal spot and neglected them for several years. They would not thrive, but refused to die. I felt bad about their situation: so 2 or 3 years ago, I made them a better spot—a mounded up little bed at the corner of the garden. I transplanted what I could of the crowns—one was such a tiny stunted thing, that I could only find about a large walnut-sized piece of usable crown—and mulched them well with rotted wood chips and commenced feeding them. The first year they didn’t do much. The second, they rallied a little. And now:
This was the one that barely had any of itself left; it was so tiny I could barely find it among the weeds. The first year post-transplant, it was unable to make a leaf bigger than a silver dollar. Now look at its leaves:
I still get some diseased leaves. This will look familiar to you:
But it really doesn’t amount to much, because the plants are big and established enough to tolerate these maladies and still produce plenty of usable stalks before summer overtakes them.
I just divided my Great-Grandma Conley’s rhubarb this spring—into three chunks. But being rhubarb—and a tough rhubarb at that—it didn’t take much note of the process. Nor is it much bothered by the musk strawberries around it. Each of these divisions will be a giant in a year or two:
This grew for many years near Little Half Mountain in Magoffin County, Kentucky. It may not have the color of the fancy reds, but it will stand toe-to-toe with any in terms of texture and flavor. Like a lot of these old-time rhubarbs, it will bolt more than the named reds, but the flower stalks are easily removed.
To me, watching rhubarb reappear and unfold itself is one of the joys of spring.