Gramma and Grampa has a plum tree out behind the house that I used to climb in the summers. The plums were great treasures, and I have fond memories of eating them, resting there in the crook. How often do I reach for those plums now in my nearly forty-fourth year of living on this earth. Sometimes I reach for the bad fruit, but it never satisfies the same.
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.
Comments
Post a Comment