When my girls rides their bikes, they get suited up pretty well: pants, long-sleeve shirts, and helmet. They are prepared for what might befall them as they cruise and wind around our cul-de-sac. I think about how the adults of my youth would sometimes holler, "Get into the back of the truck!" and how we kids would be thrilled at the prospect of a hot summer's wind blowing through our young hair. Is it sad that my kids may never hear that call to adventure? I wonder. Perhaps so.
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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