I am not a creative person. I am, rather, an observant person with a good memory. I remember the rocking motion as we pulled into our rutted driveway. I remember the smell of my granny's perfume. I remember the woodshed, the Scout, the buzz of my grampa's chainsaw. This is what goes into storytelling. I must. It is what I know.
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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