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I grew up reading Hans and the brothers Grimm and Aesop. I love fairy tales and fables. Back then, we had the unexpurgated versions, full of blood and guts. I’m not saying that was better. I’m simply saying that is how it was.
The stories, which I read over and over, never gave me nightmares nor did they leave me pining for the handsome prince to hack his way through the brambles and rescue me from the wicked step-mother. Naïve as I was, I knew that wouldn’t happen.
A few months ago, in a set-apart corner of my garden, I made a compost pit. Frequently, a couple thoughtful neighbors contribute...
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