23 lines
1.6 KiB
JSON
23 lines
1.6 KiB
JSON
{
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"captions": true,
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"voice": "af_nova",
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"music_url": "https://4ort.live/v1/mtv/video/1cac6ebc5829?download=1",
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"scenes": [
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{
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"id": "s1",
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"narration": "Before the sun clears the pecan, I am in the dirt. That is when the water matters — cool and slow, at the root, not the leaf. Houston heat does not wait for you. By seven it is already ninety. My grandmother said feed a garden in the morning and it will feed you at supper. She was always right."
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},
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{
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"id": "s2",
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"narration": "Mulch is the blanket that breathes. A hand of straw, a scatter of shredded leaves, keeps the sun off the soil so the root stays cool and the water does not run away before it soaks in. Bare earth is a liar — it looks dry on top but the heat is strangling what lives below. Mulch is patience made physical."
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},
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{
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"id": "s3",
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"narration": "A garden is a ledger with two columns. Water goes in on the left, and on the right the tomatoes and collards and okra answer back. You cannot spend what you do not have, so I give each row its share and no more. That is the whole lesson I teach the young women — budget the water like you budget the grocery money. Scarcity forces honesty."
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},
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{
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"id": "s4",
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"narration": "Come August, the fair-weather gardeners quit and their beds bake hard. Ours bear fruit, because we planted for the long haul and we stayed. That is the second sowing — not just of seed, but of faith. You water today for a harvest the front yard cannot see yet. And it comes. It always comes, if you are still there in the morning."
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}
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]
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} |