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Sunday July 28th 2019Tim Candler9

 

     I have a wooden pencil in my mouth, which under any definition qualifies as a touching of wood. I have a clove of Garlic in my shirt pocket. I have tied the laces on a pair of empty shoes, and though I say so myself the bows are quite elegant as they wait on the table beside me. I have read the definition of hubris several times, it's from the Greek for excessive pride and wonton violence. And I finally feel able to say that there might be fewer Stinkbug in the Tomato this year.

 

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     Not saying there aren't any, and certainly not saying that the paucity in Stinkbug numbers is in anyway a denigration of Stinkbug's capacity to thrive in high temperatures that the Devil might envy. Stinkbug are what they are and God bless them. So I'll not be gazing lovingly at what could be several perfectly unadulterated by Stinkbug Tomatoes. I'll not take a selfie with them, and won't be jumping up and down or expressing any sense of  personal satisfaction, but I will suggest local Stinkbug and Tomato plants might have watched my horrendous reaction to this year's Bean Bug plague and very diplomatically pulled themselves together gardener-relations-wise.

 

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