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July 7th  2011    Tim Candler

    First Beans from Bush Beans a Gardener comes firmly to the conclusion that next year he will grow Pole Beans.  It's the leaning over under hot sun.  It's the glasses first steaming up and then falling off and getting lost.  It's the having to lie down for an hour or so after picking in order to recover from dizziness. And it's the next day when each bone in the back cries out for office work.

    Second Beans, a mind wanders briefly to other things, the feet clod hop so there is unspecified and random thinning of Beans, and usually there is an outraged Toad, suspicious insects and a dankness deep in the leaves that suggest some sort of rotting pox that will by morning see all the Bean plants dead and shriveled.

      By the third picking it's as though the Beans are expecting a visit.  They have grown wiry, their leaves do not break so quickly, they appear more content or resigned.  And a Gardener is suddenly agile, his foot falls petite, his thumbnails sharp, his back strong, his glasses attached with rubber bands.

     By the fourth picking it's quite apparent that someone else has taken his bites from a few select and otherwise perfect Beans.  It's not the Bean Beetle or a caterpillar.  It's probably furry and four footed.  I like to think it's nocturnal.  And I like to think it's friendly.    

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