In the winter, my grandparents' house smelled like cooked food, coffee, and wood smoke. Is this why I sometimes light a wooden match, blow it out, and sniff the rising wood smoke? I think so. I do this sometimes before I write, before I try to make sense of a memory. It takes me back to a simpler existence when I could afford to listen to my grandparents' stories while we drank coffee and ate cookies.
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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