I cut the holes myself, bought the rope, rigged the swing up good to the tree in front of the house. The branch muscles the swing, and the girls gleefully swing to and fro beneath the Georgia sky. Tomorrow, the tree will be cut down. Where will my girls swing? It saddens me that I do not have an answer.
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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