The other day, I tried not to stare at the woman with long, scraggily hair streaked thickly with dull iron gray. She was studying the meat, the chicken, the rows of sausages at the store. I could see how she calculated the cost, how she looked at the prices and set them next to what was in her dollar store purse. It was sad. I finally looked away. I imagined that she felt she didn't belong on the pretty aisle.
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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