Peachy King seemed to know all the answers but mostly those regarding girls. He was a Boy Scout like the rest of us, though with some rank, and he was the only one of us with facial hair: a slim, barely perceptible line of hair above his upper lip. Peach fuzz. Peachy. The name went with the mature look. After we had crawled into our tents for the night, Dale hollered out, "Peachy!" "Yes," came the tired reply, and then Dale launched into a series of questions about the so-called fairer sex. Peachy King answered each question succinctly and with a measure of "one who knows." Of course, we all benefitted from the Q/A session. We were Boy Scouts all trying to make rank.
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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