This morning, the temperature was cool and the sky cloudy. After midday, the sun burned off cloud cover and humidity moved in. People complained about the heat and dense air. But you know what I don’t miss? Freaking snow.
Sorry, winter people. The worst day of summer is better than the best day of winter.
The Urban Dictionary defines Seedbombing as:
when an individual or group who throws, shoots, or slingshots pellets of dirt filled with seeds, often into empty or abandoned lots; usually part of an urban renewal project or event
Larry: Let’s throw an awesome event where we eat, drink, and mingle in between seedbombing expeditions around the neighborhood!
Jim: Cool! Let’s go buy some seed pellets and slingshots!
Previously on Poor Impulse Control:
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.
Two of my dear friends are retiring, packing up and moving out. They offered me their seeds. I was kind of heartbroken for them, being without a garden for the year or two in which they assemble their new life, but they are joyful. My friends brought me four approximately shoebox-size containers filled with carefully alphabetized and labeled seed envelopes. I started feeling like I’d taken decongestants in a room full of black light posters.
Last Saturday, I sat down with the boxes and discovered my friends had brought me a problem and a solution. More than half of the envelopes were dated three years or older. Once I’d pulled out envelopes for 2011 or earlier and poured the outdated seeds into five pint containers, the project of plantable seeds looked much more manageable.
Yesterday would have been my dad’s 74th birthday and, over the weekend, my youngest sister Dara had her first child, a little boy. For the past three days, I’ve been flinging seeds everywhere while I waited for someone to stop me or say anything at all. No one does.
Everyone fears a random giant.
About a week ago, I started having very active, busy days. After the first two, I thought I was going to pay for all that activity with a couple of days’ reclining glamorously, icepack to fevered brow, but no. I got up a third day in a row and kicked more ass, mostly my own. It was peculiar, yet encouraging. The orthopedic surgeon, who is always right about everything, says that three months after total hip replacement surgery, patients suddenly feel a lot better. Three months is still a couple of weeks ahead of me, but in the past week, I started having encouraging firsts, like that I could stand up and step sideways without waiting for a stabbing pain to pass. Yay! Less stabbing pain! Yesterday’s first was dragging out my exercise mat and stretching out. Stretching, for me, is the habit of a lifetime. I folded myself in thirds and declared victory. This pose has not been relaxing and comfortable – when it was even possible – for about four years.
I’ve been working in the same PT studio for years, with the same therapists and aids, which is a nice way of saying I have lots of invigorating problems. One of the physical therapists I worked with recently is a woman about my age. Talking with her while she twists me into a pretzel is easy, so I ask all kinds of questions as I gasp for breath. I mentioned that after the first hip surgery, I felt so much better I hardly noticed I never had two good hips at the same time and that it was hard to exercise. She said, “Now you have two hips you can strengthen simultaneously, if you work at it.” You can bet my reconstructed ass I will.
Pete and I go out for walks most evenings. Two nights ago, women walking toward us near our house were holding hands and let go when they saw us. That made me very sad. The last time I saw two women let go of each other’s hands because they saw me, those women were the young daughter of a family Pete does work for and her girlfriend. I was sad then, too.
This afternoon, Pete and I watched that young woman and her girlfriend get married in the park at the end of our street. The ceremony was lovely, the weather cool and clear. The minister, an absolutely gorgeous neighbor of the young woman’s parents and a friend of my sisters’, added one exhortation to the vows I did not remember hearing before, asking the community if it supported and accepted this marriage. To a person, everyone said, “We do.” That is a fine reason to be happy.