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Publishers Clearing House

October 14, 2011 by staff 

Publishers Clearing HousePublishers Clearing House, If the editors of the Clearing House Prize Patrol came knocking at my door and its 10 million check, which had (after the mandatory whooping and screaming for the cameras) to order the tickets so I could spend my winter where there is no winter. Perhaps Mr. Sun continue their journey south to Argentina. From November to February in Buenos Aires, the Paris of the Southern Hemisphere, would be nice.

Where did the summer go? Was not it yesterday, in the exuberance of the gentle breeze of spring, daffodils and birdsong, which was put down to young plants now, dirty and ragged, I’m throwing up?

Sad Farewell tomato plants, even though his head high range, produces few tomatoes. Too hot for fruit production, experts said. For a period of two weeks in July, however, there was an abundance of glory, or to share with neighbors. But as day followed by a hundred a hundred degrees degree days, only scowled.

Generally, in the summer of decline, there would be a good number to be picked green tomatoes to ripen indoors in the coming weeks. This year, no nothing, nothing – just head up sterile, plants.

Somewhere towards the end of August, a plant that had grown from seed – a variety of inheritance, the name of which now have no idea – produces a solitary tomato, for the time had come, was almost as big as my hands cupped and weighed almost a kilo.

In all my years on this planet, I’ve never grown a tomato. If there had been a county fair time, you will definitely have won a prize ribbon. When you cut me to eat, it was like butter, red, juicy, taste sublime – all supermarkets excuse-for-one cringe with shame tomato in its delicacy.

I would remind the variety, or even where I got the seed, so that next year could plant more. Will the tomato against which all future tomatoes are judged.

Although days can still be hot and October, with the persistent damp sweaty, sunrise is darker than occurs first, the nights and early mornings are colder. Shadows lengthen, the sun is golden, fuzzy, yellow butterflies flitting through the air fall, looking for nectar in the flowers remaining wooly worms crossing the road, going nowhere, and soon leaves 10 million dead must be raked.

In early September, even before the night began to cool and giant ragweed pollen began to blow on my breast knew the season was changing. From now until next March I will devour antihistamines to try to suppress sneezing and nasal congestion.

I’m not a fan of winter – not like the cold, rainy, sad, too short day, the mate, gray and monotonous landscape, forced confinement to the interior too.

If the editors of the Clearing House Prize Patrol came knocking at my door and its 10 million check, which had (after the mandatory whooping and screaming for the cameras) to order the tickets so I could spend my winter where there is no winter. Perhaps Mr. Sun continue their journey south to Argentina. From November to February in Buenos Aires, the Paris of the Southern Hemisphere, would be nice.

Dream on. Instead, I will tremble and sob through another winter as best you can, a passel of good books on hand, dreaming of next summer’s tomatoes …

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