Midwesterners of a certain age all longed to play the Grand Prize Game. Many of us were even taken to The Bozo Show. Some of us have not yet been allowed to live down their appearance.
But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that everyone wanted to play the Grand Prize Game because at the end, you got a fifty dollar bill (later, I’m sure, it was a hundred). I ask you, America, who couldn’t use a brand new fifty dollar bill?
Anyway, I was finishing off my garden planting this evening and all I had left was the big bed. The big bed is broken into six parts. The three three sisters I’ve got going, some cantalope, and two patches of fancy-pants marigolds. This will allow me to rotate where I plant my corn, so that it’s only in the same spot every other year. And so I dutifully marked off my six squares and then made three concentric squares in my three sisters’ plots.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Of course I stood there staring at my concentric squares being all convinced that now, every time I see any concentric squares, I’m being cued in to some great secret of the universe.
But what I want you to see is tht all of the three sisters had some spaces that were hard to get to unless you wanted to step on the beds, which I really did not want to do.
And so, I had to put my toes right on the edge and lean ever so slightly forward and toss the seeds where I wanted them to go in the hoed out squares. And as I tossed those little seeds farther and farther away from me, I had a moment of realization–THIS is really why we play the Grand Prize Game. We’re reenacting this in game form.
And I felt as one with my ancestors.
Ha ha ha ha ha.
I now have both Husband Joiner and Wife Joiner in my feed reader and I get such a treat out of it. First, I learned from Mr. Joiner about their scarecrow and saw a picture and then I read a poem from Ms. Joiner that mentioned the scarecrow at the end.
I don’t know that I’ve ever read two blog posts that struck me like that so hard, just from an aesthetic perspective. I mean, there are times when you are friends with a married couple where you experience an instant where you realize that they are sharing with you something that gives you a glimpse of how they share with each other when they are alone. And it has that effect of making you feel much closer to the two of them, but also gives you a hint of how there are depths of things that pass between them that you will never be a part of.
This was one removed from that. I feel like I’ve been let in on a moment they would normally only share with friends.
I don’t think often enough about how blogging works as an aesthetic form, as an art form, really.
But this makes me think about that.
I don’t know what to make of it, really. But I like it.
I may be slipping in my feminism, but he makes a point in here that I had never explicitly considered.
I have no idea what the fuck this is and I’m trying to decide whether it’s funnier to be in on the jokes or just to stand outside and watch and go ‘What the fuck is this?” I don’t know, honestly. If, like me, you have no idea what’s going on, you’re going to get a kick out of it. And if you do know who these folks are, well, then, you’re also going to get a kick out of it.
And if you know what’s happening and why it’s happening, please let the rest of us know.
Edited to add: Embedding disabled?! How dumbass. Here’s the link. Someone please explain to me how disabling embedding doesn’t miss the whole point of youtube?
If you are one of the people who want or expect to receive tomatos from me, I must confess that I will be at work all day today, so if you want to mount a rescue operation involving you, some ninjas, and possibly Martha Stewart, you should do so. I was growing them inside no problem, but since they have been moved outside to the porch… Um… Yes… well…
They aren’t dead. Most of them.
But that’s about all I can say.
I spent the early part of the evening planting tomatos and peppers in my garden. All that remains to be done is planting the cantalope and the three plots of three sisters. And then planting the marigolds.
Here is my only question for you, America. I just bought one pack of corn because I don’t want or have room for a shit-ton of corn, but folks have been telling me that, in order to get ears, you have to have two types of corn. Is this true? Obviously, I need to know rather urgently, before I plant this evening.
Anyway, I love planting things in my garden. I cannot recommend highly enough the mushroom compost from over at Bates. Once it’s been in your yard a week, it no longer smells very strongly of coffee grounds, but it is quite a treat to be digging and be overcome by the faint smell of mushroom pizza.
I don’t even like mushrooms, normally, but the smell from my garden is making me feel very fond of them.