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 Once I’d pulled out envelopes for 2011 or earlier and poured the outdated seeds into five pint containers, the project of plantable seeds looked much more manageable.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.