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Frost

Like any gardener, I consult the frost dates when deciding to plant.  April 19 was our average last frost, so a 50% probability that after this date, there will be no more freezes.  50% is not a good bet with my tomatoes, and I’ve been burned by this in the past (or rather frostbitten), so I go off the later date: the guaranteed last frost date, or whatever they call it.  It seems to go by more than one name, but it’s basically the almost certain guaranteed date after which there will be no more frost.  Ours was May 3.  The weekend after, I planted my tomatoes.

What could go wrong?

That weekend, Sunday night–last night, May 7, the weather report predicted a low of 34.  But, there was no frost advisory.  It would be cutting it close, but ultimately after an exhausting weekend, I lacked the energy to consider going out and covering my tomatoes.  I trusted to fate.

This morning, as I rolled the trash to the curb, I noticed with dismay that there was frost upon the grass.  I quickly inspected my tomatoes.  One appeared frostbitten, but the others did not.  I noted that the line of frost only just barely touched the edge of my garden.

The coldest period of the night was 6-7AM.  This was the time during which I was reviewing my garden, so it is possible that I was seeing the worst of things.  The garden is against the garage, so maybe enough residual heat leached from the house to keep the garden thawed.

The Farmer’s Almanac had this to say about the date:

‘You are almost guaranteed that you will not get frost’

Apparently “almost” is the key word.  After work, I go home to determine the damage.  And I hope that one night has not destroyed 6 weeks of indoor growing preparation for my first garden at the new house.

–Simon

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Like a Record, Baby

Standing desks are hippie-dippie crap.  Just because you want to lessen your chances of fatal cardiac arrest one day, I have to hear you and your stupid call as you talk way too loudly over the cubicle walls.

That is not the topic of this post, but a mere introduction.  I, too, feel my fragile physical form atrophying as I sit in a chair for hours.  And so, partially out of concern for my musculature, partially because I can’t bear to hear standing desk guy talking loudly on his eternal call anymore, I venture forth into the harsh and unforgiving wilderness that is the paved perimeter of the building.

I started taking walks whenever I had the time very early in my employ at this company.  And now, years later, I again went walking, but this time with someone else.  I’ve done that before of course–I’m not an antisocial weirdo.  But apparently I always take the lead, for on this occasion, upon our mutual egress from the edifice, she turned right–a direction I had never considered.  She wished to circumnavigate the building in a clockwise direction.  I implored her to rethink her rash and unwise decision, but nay said she, for the wild called to her in that direction.

Actually I think she just said she wanted to go that way, followed by a rhetorical question along the lines of what the hell was wrong with me.  And I, being the eternal gentlemen, acquiesced.  Then, 10 steps into the walk, I collapsed from an anxiety attack.

Which brings me to my question: why are sporting events which involve circular autotransference always done so in a counterclockwise direction?  Once again I sought the Holy Oracle for its wisdom of the collective consciousness.

Google quickly directed me to several sites, wherein the answers were many.  Explanations included but were not limited to: Coriolis effect, faster movement in relation to the planet’s rotation, more natural for the majority right-foot dominated athletes, and the interpretation of chronology as athletes moved from left to right from the perspective of the spectators.

But I recall an X-Files episode in which a buried naval antenna, miles long, generated ultra-low frequency radio waves for communication with deep-sea submarines.  Except, this being the X-Files, there were unanticipated consequences, and local residents suffered some sort of explosive decompression of their inner ear if they stopped moving–some sort of bone-resonance in relation to the antenna.  The guest actor was the guy who played the Breaking Bad dude.  Anyway, things didn’t turn out so well for Breaking Bad dude, the navy denied any wrongdoing but mysteriously shut down the antenna, and Mulder got the usual berating from FBI Assistant Director Skinner (or maybe it was his new boss after he was officially removed from the X-Files).

It is therefore my preferred theory that my panic attack was not due to some simple neurological disorder like OCD, but rather that, let’s say, the gel in my inner-ear is in resonance with the earth’s rotation and it causes me physical pain to travel clockwise.  One day, I will travel to the southern hemisphere to confirm this theory.

For now, let’s take a walk, and turn left dammit!

–Simon

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Thirteenth Floor…and Others

Last year, my employer flew me to their office in St. Paul, MN.  Sometimes I wonder why we end up with offices where we do.  I’m sure a geographer had a hand in it.  But anyway, ever notice how some places add an odd degree of drama to what would otherwise be benign circumstances?  Like someone had to come up with compelling narrative?  The office was in a suite, on the 6th or 7th floor–I can’t remember which–in downtown, in the First National Bank Building.

The building was apparently involved in some 1930s gangster-type shenanigans, and at one point the bank’s vault was the victim of an attempted robbery.  Supposedly the corridor leading to the vault is still riddled with Tommy-gun bullets.  But, the vault isn’t open to the public so I couldn’t verify this firsthand.  Nor did I take the time to verify the building’s backstory.  Maybe I will, after this.

Upon arriving at said building, like most normal people, my boss and I took the elevator.  This is what the panel looked like:

It gave me pause, more so than it would have had the numbers simply stopped at 7.  I brought this oddity to my boss’ attention, who responded with complete disinterest.  Then again, all he wanted to do in his off time was sit in his hotel room, so maybe some people are just generally uninterested with the world as a whole.  But not I!  This mystery needed investigation.

During our meetings, I made it a point to ask every group–the people who went to that office every day: What was on floor 16?  The responses were all of a similar variety.  No one knew, no one had thought about it, and no one had gone up there.  They saw this panel every day and not once did a single person push the button to floor 16.  It seemed that I would have to find out for myself.

Back in the elevator, on our way to the hotel, I pushed the button.  Now my boss’ indifference edged towards open irritation, but I ignored him.  My curiosity moved from just floor 16 to all the intermediate unlabeled floors as the elevator display also stopped listing numeric designations en route.

Upon reaching floor 16, the doors opened into a mysterious fog.  Not really.  They opened into a completely innocuous floor.  The doors, also devoid of numbers, taunted me with suspense as they were all locked.

I thought I might try for the stairwell and explore the unlabeled mystery floors below, but upon this suggestion, my boss threatened to abandon me.  I was, of course, capable of navigating my way back to my hotel room alone, but he was also ready to get food and I started thinking about what kind of dinner I could charge to the company card.  I left the building, possibly forever, none closer to a satisfying answer.  So if anyone finds themselves in St. Paul’s First National Bank Building, go to floor 16 and complete my unfinished saga.

–Simon

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Weekend Warrior

I think I shortened my lifespan this weekend.  There were certainly moments when I wanted to lay down and expire.  But rather than make individual posts and cloud the feed, I’ll make a multi-purpose single post instead to feed the cloud (heh, nerd jokes):

You Say Tomato

Yes, I removed more sod.  And I think I’ve finally had it with that.  There will be no more garden installation this year.  Seriously, I hate removing sod.

Grass is kind of just wasted space

Note that old cable box from a defunct cable company.  I’m going to have to rip that off the wall one day.  Anyway, when the house’s seller (the son of the former owner) haphazardly threw down mulch to gain a +10 curb appeal, for some reason he made this side organically-shaped.  It’s the only “garden” that wasn’t rectangular.  Maybe he got creative.  Maybe he ran out of mulch.  Who knows?  But, this is the SW side of the house, and the ideal location for a vegetable garden.  So I had to widen it anyway.

A more efficient design

We argued over the tomato-securing system.  I wanted to use trellis netting and just have a row of tomatoes.  Apparently Liz had experienced that before with her parents and the results were not as expected.  But the peculiarities of any garden are unique to their specific circumstances, so this will be an experiment anyway.  This year, we’ll try the bamboo poles.  Planting to come this weekend.

Mobile Foodies

I admit–food is not my drug.  Therefore, the many joys of food novelty are lost on me.  Among these is the influx of food trucks.  It isn’t really much cheaper, I have to yell over the sound of generators to place my order, and as the customer I’m tasked with finding my own improvised seating arrangements.

It’s hard to smile with a mouth full of hotdog

But, it is an opportunity to quickly try a variety of food options.  And those spicy Caribbean tacos I had were pretty darn good.  And it was a fun new experience for the kid, so win.

…Comes Tumblin’ Down

Look at this pine tree:

It appears unimportant to me, priority-wise.  It isn’t dying, nor is it leaning dangerously.  But my neighbor hated it, and my wife hated it.  As I spent my childhood on the Great Plains, it’s still fascinating to me that trees can grow naturally, and not have to be attended to constantly.  I like trees, but native Ohioans seem to revel in deforestation for some reason.  Ultimately, I conceded to having this one tree removed, were we to need to remove a tree to satisfy the boiling desire of my Ohioan wife to kill a tree.

My neighbor, in his excitement upon hearing word of my concession, and apparently having recently gotten his chainsaw in working order, ran over to greet us with said chainsaw, and expressed his willingness to cut the tree down at that moment–to which my wife readily agreed.

It may be just a tree, but I still have trouble with needlessly extinguishing a life

I also have many a memory of the trees in Lubbock dying, and needing to be chopped down.  And while my youthful memory likely exaggerates the negatives, I recall dad borrowing a chainsaw to fell the trees, followed by me spending hours with the pruners and bow saw, chopping and cutting, chopping and cutting…

This tree was no exception.  3-4 hours later, and we had grown the firewood supply.  And for whatever reason, the women of the neighborhood found it hilarious that I was butchering the tree with a reciprocating saw.  I guess, compared to the chainsaw, there was a penis joke in there somewhere.

What the Duck?

Ending on a happy note, a duck and her ducklings wandered down the gutter.

I wonder where she was leading them.  I’m not aware of any nearby ponds.  But last year I almost hit a duck with the mower in my front yard, so apparently we’re good duck territory despite the lack of ponds…and mechanical chopping machines.

–Simon

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Help it Grow (Part 4)

A lot of plants have migrated out of the indoor garden.  Some, though, remain.  Remember the Evil Morning Glories, or as I had named them: Ipomea Diaboli (fuck you, botanists everywhere–I can do it too!)?  Well, it seems they feed upon light–same as other plants, and not upon the negative energy wrought by souls of the damned as I had originally suspected.  I came to this conclusion by observing the size of the plant I had unceremoniously thrown into a pot under the growlight because I wanted something green down there:

A lesser demon

It’s a cute little demon anyway.

Also, that bean plant I attempted that managed to produce a pod?  The pod dried and I harvested it, figuring it wasn’t worth the effort to eat a single bean, but rather to harvest the seed:

A single seed within.  All the work and the plant only has a single viable offspring.  Seems like a zero net gain.  Sort of like Liz and I, except that’s a generational net loss.  Still, I think neither beans nor humans are in any immediate danger of extinction.

–Simon