“There are just a few things,” said the good farmer with a knowing smile, “that'll make your garden grow. First, plant lovingly. Give your sprouts room to grow. To stretch out and take root.” “Second,” he said, taking off his dusty cap and leaning in closely to my bare shoulder, dusting it gently with Beam-laced breath, breath that spoke of a thousand sunrises, “Don't ever bullshit what you put into the ground. You've got to do it with all the love and trust and water and honesty you can muster. There isn't any other way. You don't plant roses and treat them like they were corn.”