His Heart Of Their Anger

Mercury is in retrograde and even if I did not believe in it, I am living that dream. My laptop turned its back on me, my bicycle clangs, my phone rings and people try talking to me. It is Hell. I want to hide out in my garden but we have carpenter bees and the sentry is trying to kick my ass.

shadowy.jpgToday would have been my dad’s 75th birthday. You may recall that he died some years back and has been refusing to phone home since. It’s very inconvenient. I’m sure if there’s an afterlife, he’s annoyed and demanding a taller, stickier croque en bouche.

I know I would.

As I Waved And Went

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.
2. Wait.
3. Watch out for falling giants.

The possible results:
1. Planting.
2. Composting.
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.

Not to mention this and this and that. Essentially, seedbombing is one of my favorite things and recently, a thing happened.

Ammo, art supplies or weapon of vengeance, but also seeds.

Ammo, art supplies or weapon of vengeance, but also seeds.

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.

Walking On By the Arcade

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.
2. Wait.
3. Watch out for falling giants.

The possible results:
1. Planting.
2. Composting.
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.

seedier

It’s a subtle history of stuff I failed to do.

Pretty, pretty mischief!

seedy

Der Seedulator

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.

That's how the life gets in.

That’s how the life gets in.

The Moment Is A Masterpiece

This morning, three enormous female wild turkeys strolled and hopped around the backyard before sauntering off down the neighbors’ driveway. They were bigger than geese and had no trouble leaping over six-foot fences. We surmise they turned up to visit their distant cousins, our neighbor’s hens. The people of the chickens did not see the turkeys, but had a phone call about them.

Basement garden, soon to be porch, window box, greenhouse and raised garden gardens. You read that right.

Basement garden, soon to be porch, window box, greenhouse and raised garden gardens. You read that right.

Speaking of peculiar events, tomorrow is April Fool’s Day and the sixth anniversary of Dad’s death and some of the best writing of my illustrious career. Coincidentally, turkey hunting permits go on sale in New Jersey tomorrow.

Drinking Heavy Water From A Stone

Daria: We’re leaving for Geneva tomorrow on Sandro’s birthday. Tonight, we’re having his favorite pizza and cake. Tomorrow, there’ll be leftover pizza and cake. He’ll have guilt-cake every day we’re gone.
Tata: So when you get home, he’ll be sullen and fat. And you’re just as bad a mommy as when I left for Ecuador on Miss Sasha’s birthday!
Daria: Hooray! I’m only the World’s Second Worst Mommy since you did it first!
Tata: Hooray! When is your flight?
Daria: We arrive in Geneva on Saturday after two nights in London.
Tata: You’re going to London tomorrow? Are you out of your mind?
Daria: Yeah, Laura said that yesterday. You guys are going to London during the Olympics? We looked at each other and said, Hunh.
Tata: You. Did not know. About the Olympics.
Daria: Yep, that’s what happens when you don’t watch TV.
Tata: If Dad were still alive he’d die laughing.