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March 17th 2009

    Like lambs to mint sauce we planted one row of potatoes today.

    Ancient gardeners might have sacrificed, before or after such an event.  Those who were very pompous might have offered the first born from a neighboring tribe as a tribute to the forces which govern these things.  

    The dark inconsolable place which is earth, remains as it was in those far away days.  A splinter of hope now and then.  Seed potatoes are marked as free from pestilence, which means that somewhere there is a perfect place.

  

    I used to think it was shyness that made the gardener dour.  At the new hardware stores they crack a smile in recollection of an old trowel that had made them proud.  But tarmac and concrete, bright-lights and slick labeling soon bring them back to earth.

    Perhaps there is something in the soil that does it.

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