Longtime guests of this here establishment may recall the Beany Benediction:
I. I am a genius!
We dismantled Dad’s kitchen and I ended up with a bigass container of dried black beans; by bigass, I mean a 7-quart Sysco restaurant container, and by beans, I mean of indeterminate age and/or magical power. For many long months, I stared at this container and waited for inspiration, which means breath of the gods and there’s just not enough Gas-Ex, thank you. One day, a plan came to me. Pete laughed out loud, uncertain I’d do it. Two nights ago, we filled a quart bag with beans and went for a walk. The plan:
1. On a rainy night, fling beans near chain link fences everywhere.
3. Watch out for falling giants.
The possible results:
3. Feeding outdoor critters.
We enjoyed furtively peppering lawns, alleys, empty planters and scrubby gardens with prospective beanstalks, which process became more entertaining the closer we walked to the center of town and spectators. No one asked us what we were doing. No one said, “You’ve literally beaned me.” No. People watched as Pete and I walked by and I exhorted our little legumes to grow toward the sun, be free, be free! This public art project memorializing my father is called the Beany Benediction.
No cows will be harmed in the making of it.
That was 2008. Dad’s been scampering around the Elysian Fields seven years now, while I’ve been planting gardens in the ‘burbs. Partially used or unused packets of seeds piled up everywhere. Pete and I resolved to take action. Let’s say we had a Seedy Scheme.
Pretty, pretty mischief!
We bypassed the overmanicured lawns and blessed the shady spots and bushes and in-between spaces. Pete tossed seeds hither and yon, by which I mean in the places where no people are looking and where things are being and it’s possible squirrels alone are going. But maybe not.