Sunday July 28th 2019Tim
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.
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.