A van passed by my house every now and then, and from it flies a newspaper I never read. The beat up van is piloted by an older woman, and the thrower of the newspaper is, I have to believe, her son. He is balding, scrawny, and wearing BCGs (birth control glasses in military parlance). What do I witness when I see these two pass by? A failure to launch? Some kind of curious brokenness? An inability or refusal to fall in step? Perhaps it is only a mother who won't abandon her child come age, come failure, come what may.
It wasn't tall fescue at all; it was Bermuda. I had sown thousands upon thousands of tall fescue seeds in a small patch of my yard, but time and time again, the Southern sun would burn them off and turn the soil into dust. So I tried another type of seed. The analogy presented itself. The ground can be fertile, but at the end of the day, it is the type of seed we plant that matters.
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