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Musing and memories

Going down the rows, it's always a matter of life and death. Life, if we're planting. And if we're weeding - well, these weeds must die! So planting garlic on a beautiful fall day is a matter of life, but also a matter of faith. Like penitents of old, we crawl down the rows in service to our task. Heads down, each clove we gently push into the soft ground a prayer of hope and survival. For those tiny cloves, planted in October, will barely sprout before the winter freeze arrives. They must hold that faint memory of life through the dark, still season. In spring, when air and soil temperatures conjoin to beckon the sprouts from their cold cradles, tiny green shoots will appear where frozen ground had recently been. By harvest time in July, a field of large lush fronds will wave in the breeze, ready to continue the cycle. So the garlic does have to "die" in order to be plucked from the growing ground, dried, and head toward our spaghetti sauce. But within each b

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