Kudzu

I'm starting this early, though I won't post it for a few days. I don't know what brought this to mind, beyond the fact that I was talking on my last post about my mother's hyacinths and the fact that everyone I know (translate: Southerners I grew up with) calls daffodils "buttercups" while everyone up here in Yankee land calls them Easter Lilies. I don't know if daffodils are actually buttercups, but I do know they are most definitely NOT Easter Lilies. (I've pointed this out to my poor, misinformed Yankee husband many times through the years.) Anyway, for some inexplicable reason, I find myself thinking about kudzu.

For the uninitiated and non-Southern out there, kudzu is a plant. No, it's more than a simple plant. "Plant" is far too innocent a word to describe this thing.
Kudzuworld.com describes it thus:

What is Kudzu?

Quick Facts

What is Kudzu you say? Its an amazing plant. So amazing that some say its an alien species. The Japanese love it, but it grows normal in Japan. In the American South it's a predator.

• It grows more than 7 feet (more than 2 meters) meters a week. Almost nothing stops it.
• It takes 10 to 15 years to control a Kudzu patch – even with chemicals. Effective herbicides (such as napalm and agent orange) often destroy the soil. Of 12 known herbicides, 10 have no effect, and 2 make it grow better.
• Its covers more than 2.8 million square km of the American South. If it were not for winter, there would only be 40 American states. Patches often are 6+ miles (10+ kilometers) long.
• Its even been called "The vegetable form of cancer".

 Here's a very helpful information sheet:

Gardening tips from down south - How to Grow Kudzu

by Tifton Merritt

Choosing a Plot

Kudzu can be grown almost anywhere, so site selection is not the problem it is with some other finicky plants like strawberries. Although kudzu will grow quite well on cement, for best result you should select an area having at least some dirt. To avoid possible lawsuits, it is advisable to plant well away from your neighbors house, unless, of course, you don't get along well with your neighbor anyway.

Preparing the Soil

Go out and stomp on the soil for a while just to get its attention and to prepare it for kudzu.

Deciding When to Plant

Kudzu should always be planted at night. If kudzu is planted during daylight hours, angry neighbors might see you and begin throwing rocks at you.

Selecting the Proper Fertilizer

The best fertilizer I have discovered for kudzu is 40 weight non-detergent motor oil. Kudzu actually doesn't need anything to help it grow, but the motor oil helps to prevent scraping the underside of the tender leaves when the kudzu starts its rapid growth. It also cuts down on the friction and lessens the danger of fire when the kudzu really starts to move. Change oil once every thousand feet or every two weeks which ever comes first.

Mulching the Plants

Contrary to what may be told by the Extension Service, kudzu can profit from a good mulch. I have found that a heavy mulch for the young plants produces a hardier crop. For best results, as soon as the young shoots begin to appear, cover kudzu with concrete blocks. Although this causes a temporary setback, your kudzu will accept this mulch as a challenge and will reward you with redoubled determination in the long run.

Organic or Chemical Gardening

Kudzu is ideal for either the organic gardener or for those who prefer to use chemicals to ward off garden pests. Kudzu is oblivious to both chemicals and pests. Therefore, you can grow organically and let the pests get out of the way of the kudzu as best they can, or you can spray any commercial poison directly on your crop. Your decision depends on how much you enjoy killing bugs. The kudzu will not mind either way.

Crop Rotation

Many gardeners are understandably concerned that growing the same crop year after year will deplete the soil. If you desire to change from kudzu to some other plant next year, now is the time to begin preparations. Right now, before the growing season has reached its peak, you should list your house and lot with a reputable real estate agent and begin making plans to move elsewhere. Your chances of selling will be better now than they will be later in the year, when it may be difficult for a prospective buyer to realize that underneath those lush green vines stands an adorable three-bedroom house.

More helpful advice:

How fast can you run?
"God may have thrown Adam and Eve out of Eden, but kudzu chased out
the Lord."
What is Kudzu?
From "The American Heritage Dictionary":
Kudzu (kood'zoo) n. A vine, Pueraria lobata, native to Japan, having compound leaves and clusters of reddish purple flowers and grown for fodder and foliage.

Kudzu was brought to the US in 1876 during a exposition in Philadelphia for a Japanese garden exhibit. It hasn't stopped growing since.
Gardening Advice
Advice for the newcomer to kudzu gardening.
Planting
Throw the seeds and run. Very Fast.

Kudzu tends to not need anything to help it grow, but it is sometimes a good idea to shout
"Incoming!" before planting.

I know what you're thinking. (At least if you aren't actually from the South and don't have personal experience with this plant.) You're thinking that, it's just a plant. More than that, it's a pretty plant with lovely green leaves and beautiful purple blooms. How could anyone disparage it!

Don't let those deceptively pretty blooms fool you! As absurd or funny as the previous claims about kudzu are, they are far closer to the truth than you can imagine. For proof, I offer this:

Oh yes it does do that! EVERYTHING that doesn't move on practically a daily basis gets eaten by this stuff.

There are some out there who posit an interesting theory about how and why kudzu came to be a part of this nation's ecosystem. One theory is known as the Kudzu Conspiracy. It is far too detailed to reprint in its entirety here, but please read it and judge its merits for yourself.

Personally, I don't know that the conspiracy goes that far. I doubt the ability of any government to maintain something this insidious and conniving for so long. I do, however, have my own suspicions about the purpose of this vine. It's a theory that I have heard others mention, and one that I cannot help but lend at least some measure of credence to.

If you read the history of kudzu (The Amazing Story of Kudzu) you will see that it was first introduced to this country in Philadelphia in 1876. The place and timing are key! You'll note that the place was a city located NORTH of the famous Mason/Dixon Line, which anyone knows is the line of demarcation between the North (Yankees) and the South (Rebels). And the time was 1876, a mere 11 years after the end of the War of Northern Aggression. (The Civil War for you Yankees out there.)

There is a saying that was coined near the end of the war that goes like this: "The South's gonna rise again!" It's a bold threat that I believe the North just could not bear to ignore! So when kudzu was put on display at the Exposition in Philadelphia in 1876, they found their answer to keeping the South under control. A simple, innocent looking little plant!

Kudzu was introduced to unsuspecting Southerners as a lovely ornamental plant, or forage for farm animals, or the perfect solution to erosion control. And Southerners being the avid gardeners that they are, they cultivated it without a second thought. (Everyone knows no Southern woman can resist a pretty flowering plant. My own mother was known to dig up all kinds of flowers from around abandoned houses just because she couldn't bear the thought of them blooming where no one would be able to enjoy them.)

No Southerner could have known in those early days just what they were unleashing upon their beloved Dixie. By the time they figured it out and realized that they had been duped by the blasted Yankee carpetbaggers who'd sold them the evil green monster, it was too late to get it under control. Since then it has quite literally taken over the South. Southerners will never again be able to unite against the Yankee enemy because they must devote every moment of their spare time to defending their homes against the kudzu invasion.

You may be thinking that I'm just paranoid. But consider the fact that kudzu only grows in the South! No Northern city need fear its choking grip. No Yankee family will have to abandon their home and land to its incessant crawl. It is a weapon, I say, aimed at the South alone! This map proves my theory!

 Call me a conspiracy nut if you want, I think my point has been made.

American by birth, Southern by the grace of God. ;-)

(BTW, if anyone out there can't pick up that my "theory" is a joke, then you need to seek out psychiatric help immediately!)

Memories...

(Imagine Elvis singing...) iq Memories... pressed between the pages of my mind... iq

Okay, so Mark and I went up to Scottsburg, IN the other day on a whim. I'd had my radiation and we decided to run up there to have a quick look around. We were actually looking for a used car dealership that used to have a branch in Madison a few years ago. It's called Jeffrey's Auto. It's a Christian dealership and we bought our truck from them back when they were in Madison. Here's what they say about themselves on their website:

We are a Christian, family-owned business. We have owned and operated our car lot in Scottsburg for over 25 years. We place a high value on our reputation and our name. We try very hard to please you, our customer, by providing you an automobile at a very affordable price. We appreciate your inquiry, and we will go out of our way to serve you. Thank you and may our Lord bless you.

 This is their logo:

I mention this because while Mark and I greatly respect and appreciate the fact that they are Christians and don't hesitate to advertise it, the finger pointing up has always struck us as kind of funny. Every time one of us mentions Jeffrey's, the other will point up and say, "One Way." As funny as we find it though, we did have a good experience with them, so we decided to head up to Scottsburg to see what they had on the lot.

We aren't really full out shopping for a new car, but we are browsing at this point. And by new, I mean something newer than what we currently own, not necessarily something that just rolled off the factory line.

Anyway, we didn't find anything, so we drove on through town just to look around, then stopped to get some gas because it was cheaper there than in Madison. After that we headed back through town on our way home. And I've said all this just to get to this point. There's a train track that runs through the heart of town. Sure enough, just as Mark and I neared it, the lights started flashing and the arms came down. We could hear the train whistle blowing as it approached.

I immediately began to grin like a fool. See, where I grew up, trains are a big part of the scenery. There was a track a few dozen yards in front of my grandmother's house. Every time a train went by the entire house shook. The shaking was accompanied by constant tinkling as my grandmother's collection of salt shakers clinked against each other. I used to play on the tracks. (Yes, it was probably dangerous to some extent. But it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out a train is coming, especially when you're touching the rails.) There was a trestle just up the tracks a bit and we used to walk up to it and then climb down to play in the water. And I certainly flattened my share of pennies on those tracks through the years

Then there was my hometown of Corinth, MS. (Pronounced Carinth, like the car you drive.) Corinth was known as the crossroads because it was a fairly pivotal rail hub and the tracks literally crossed there.

This is one of the more popular pics of the old station and tracks. It's sold on postcards. There is no way to get around town without crossing the tracks at least once and more likely several times. As we sat there watching the train go by in Scottsburg, Mark and I talked about the trains from home.

There are a number of stories just in my life about various trains and crossings. I'm sure things have changed somewhat in the years since I left, but when I was young, more than a few of the crossings didn't actually have lights or crossbars. You just had to pull up and look both ways before crossing the tracks. One of these crossings was toward the outer edge of town and we used to cross it every time we were coming back home from visiting my grandmother. One day we were coming back into town and we were all tired. Dad was driving and as he approached the crossing he didn't even slow down. He just shot across it without looking. There was a train coming. And by coming I mean it was close enough to scare us all to death when we saw it looming over us. That became an oft repeated story over the years.

The best one, though, involved my mother and sister. They'd been shopping or something and were on their way back home. There was yet another crossing with no lights. My mother did slow down, but she told my sister to hang her head out the window to see if there was a train coming. She did and there was no train. There were, however, a series of mail boxes just on the other side of the tracks. To this day my sister still talks about Mom trying to knock her head off on those mailboxes.

We lived just outside the city limits and there was pretty much no way to get to our house without crossing tracks somewhere. The trains had this really annoying tendency to come to a dead stop on the tracks, blocking the roads. And these weren't short little trains. They were so long that even if you tried to turn around and approach from a different direction, you'd just encounter the same train blocking whatever road you tried to take. So we spent a lot of time sitting there waiting for the trains to finish whatever it was they were doing and get moving again. It was just a part of life in Corinth.

Mark and I laughed and reminisced about this as we watched that train go by in Scottsburg. I couldn't help but feel a little homesick. Trains always make me feel that way, mainly because I don't see all that many of them around here. There was even a track some distance from the house I grew up in. On still, quiet nights we could sometimes hear the whistles as the trains approached town. I love that sound. And I love the clickty-clack of the wheels as they move over the rails. I love the smell of the creosote on the ties as they bake in the sun. It all reminds me of my childhood and takes me back to simpler days.

Mark and I have often talked about moving south one day. I've told him that I don't think I'd want to go back to Corinth. Because it isn't the same town I knew as a child. It's grown tremendously. Everything is different. The church I attended has moved and rebuilt and is now more of a mega church than the tightly knit family it once was. My childhood home was sold years ago and the new owners did some construction so that it doesn't even look the same from the outside. While I wouldn't mind visiting, since I do still have dear friends there, I can't imagine living there. I think it would be more painful than comforting. So if we ever do decide to move south, it will be somewhere else, I think.

Still, I love the town of Corinth. Just thinking about all the wonderful  memories I have of it makes me smile. It's small, but has a lot to offer. There's a lot of simple beauty, especially downtown where the older houses are. And there's no way to even scratch the surface of the history contained in every nook and corner of town. I jokingly tell people that Northerners have no real appreciation of history. I can count on one hand the number of historical markers I've seen in my years living up here. The South is an utterly different story. There's a historical marker or commemorative plaque practically every five feet down there. Most relate to the Civil War, of course. Corinth played a pivotal role in the fight, so there are lots of markers in town. Plenty of cannons, too, all still pointed north. (That's a Southern thing. All Civil War cannons are pointed north no matter where they are.)

I miss a lot about Southern life. If you've never experienced it, you cannot understand how different it is. Things just move at a slower, more easy pace. And there are trains. What's not to love about that?

Rant........Rant...Rant!

You know, I'm not a person who's particularly easily offended. I don't walk around with a giant chip on my shoulder, daring someone to try to knock it off. I don't wear my heart on my sleeve, whining every single time someone dares to hurt it. I don't look for reasons to get my panties in a twist. But there is one thing that pretty much sets me off every single time it occurs.

I am a born and bred Southerner and I refuse to either apologize for that or be ashamed of it. Worse, I'm not just Southern, I'm from Mississippi, the popular choice for most backwards, racist, idiot filled state in the country. I have lost count of just how many jokes I've heard made at the expense of my home state and those of us who are from there. And don't even get me started on the morons out there who preach about just how horrible a place it is when they've never so much as set foot in the state. Even more offensive to me are native Southerners who buy into the perceived shame of their heritage. One example that comes to mind is the comedian, Brett Butler. I used to watch her years ago and she usually made me laugh. Right up until she made a joke out of how smart she was for getting out of the South. It went something like this, "I was born and raised in the South and I'd like credit for getting out." I don't think I've watched her since then.

It's not that I'm some kind of nut who goes off the deep end every time someone makes a joke about the South or Southerners. If you've ever seen the movie, "Sweet Home Alabama," then you're familiar with a long string of jokes that had me laughing so hard I was crying. It portrays Southern life pretty well. I always laugh especially hard at the scenes of the Civil War Reenactment. I've actually been to one of those. And there are countless other comedians who poke their share of fun at Southern culture and behavior. Believe me, it's hard not to laugh at some of the things my fellow Southerners do. But I do not understand why so many have to turn it into something ugly. It's a form of bigotry, whether anyone else is willing to see it as such or not.

For example, Mississippi is supposed to be a hotbed of racism. Okay, only a fool would deny that much of the South took a very long time to get over their backwards views of blacks. Some horrible things happened there. But it wasn't just in Mississippi or just in the South. And what happened 30 or 50 or 150 years ago has nothing to do with today. I will openly admit that I grew up surrounded by racism. Mostly, it was the kind of racism based on ignorance and/or repeating what was heard from others. Like all racism or bigotry, people who have no first hand knowledge just repeat what they've heard others say without bothering to question it. This doesn't somehow make it "better" than blatant hatred of someone just for the color of their skin, but there is a difference between the two. Mainly, those who are racist out of ignorance are much more easily reached than those who are firmly entrenched in their hatred. I'll use my own mother as an example.

She was born and raised in Tennessee. (Both my parents were.) Not just Tennessee, but a hole in the wall little place. She disliked black people, not because any black person had ever done anything to her, but because she'd heard all her life that they were somehow unworthy of trust and/or respect. (My father was much the same way.) It's what I think of as "generational" racism. They got it from their parents, who got it from their parents, etc. But my mother was a natural born teacher. During my elementary years she began working occasionally as a substitute teacher at my school. Then she got her GED and became a teacher's assistant. Don't make the mistake of thinking that just because my mother did not graduate from high school, she was stupid or dumb. She wasn't. She just lived in a time and place when graduating, especially for girls, wasn't that big a deal. So, anyway, she was working full time at my elementary school by the time I reached 5th or 6th grade. One of the other elementary teachers was a black woman. That was, I believe, the first time my mother ever really had the opportunity to get to know a black person. I mean really get to know them. Knowing this one person opened my mother's eyes in a profound way. It taught her that all the garbage she'd heard her entire life was, in fact, not true. It changed her life.

Okay, so the South has plenty of racism. Yes, there are groups like the KKK, skinheads and neo-nazis who've carried it to violent extremes. But none of that behavior is limited to the South. And this I know first hand from personal experience. I was born and raised in Mississippi, but I have spent my entire adult life living above the Mason-Dixon Line. In fact, as my childhood best friend recently pointed out to me, I have now lived longer in the North than I did in the South. (Pardon me for just a moment while I grieve for that fact....Okay, I'm back now.)

I lived in Mississippi for almost the first 18 years of my life. I moved to Indiana just before my 18th birthday and have lived there ever since. (More than 21 years, now.) So I have plenty of experience with life in both regions, and what have I found? I have found that there is every bit as much racism here in the supposedly enlightened North as I ever saw in my backwards home state. The biggest difference is that up here it is far more insidious. It hides behind false smiles and pretended tolerance. I was told that one of the grand wizards of the KKK once lived right here in my small town. A family that I knew quite well and that fronted a friendly, open, Christian appearance turned out to have VERY close ties to the Klan. (Not so close to them now.) Even people I respect on many other issues have some frighteningly racist leanings. I find it a little scary just how well it's hidden around here.

I make no excuses for Southern racism. Racism is never excusable, never "okay." It is very offensive to me, but even more so when it comes from someone who hides it behind a smile. Someone who spews racist rhetoric is at least honest about how they feel. They aren't shaking hands with a person of color with a big ol' smile plastered on their face while secretly thinking about how beneath them that person is, or worse, spewing their skewed views behind that person's back. I've seen all this right here in the good old North. Yankees are every bit as racist as Southerners, they're just much more secretive about it. And that, in my book, makes them even worse. Because they're two faced. Talking love, and respect, and wholesome Christian values out of one side of their mouth while the other spreads cliched racist lies.

So, maybe, the next time someone makes a joke about backwards, inbred, racist Southerners, you might want to take a moment to consider that it is just as offensive as a joke about a black person and a watermelon. I am a born and bred Southerner. I am highly offended by every form of racism. I am intelligent, educated, and hardly "backwards." I am proud of much of my Southern heritage. Believe me when I tell you that being Southern is a blessing. As the saying goes, "American by birth, Southern by the grace of God." Yes, slavery is a part of our past. But there was a time when Northerners owned slaves as well. And that whole notion that the Civil War was all about Southern plantation owners not wanting to lose their slaves is a load of baloney. Sure, slavery played a role in the war, but there was a lot more to it than that. The point is, I've never known a single person who owned a slave and neither have you. Well, maybe you have. There was a news story I read just the other day about a human slave ring that was broken up in NYC recently involving a bunch of young women from Africa who were being forced to braid the hair of black women while being kept in deplorable conditions and frequently raped and abused as well. The leader of the slave ring was a black woman. Imagine that.

So maybe it's time people pulled their heads out of the sand and took a real look around. The South is not the seat of all racism any longer. It is not a hotbed of human atrocity and abuse. It is just a geographical region filled with people who, despite having an accent that makes them sound a little slow, are sick and tired of being labeled as something they aren't. That accent doesn't make us stupid. It just makes us different.

I am proud of who I am and where I come from. I was raised to be honest, loyal, and trustworthy. I was raised to understand that my family is my responsibility. I was raised to love with all my heart and without reservation. I was raised to believe in God, to trust in Him and to know that He died for me. I was raised to be polite and respectful, but to stand up for what I believe in. I was taught to love, even when it isn't easy to do so. Even when your heart is breaking, you hang on. Seen "Steel Magnolias?" Then you know what I'm talking about. Being Southern shouldn't have to be something shameful. As I told someone who made a joke (directly to my face) about how backwards my home was, "I'd rather be from a backwards place like that, than from anywhere I've lived or visited since leaving."

Being Southern has been nothing but a blessing to me. Even the racism I grew up surrounded by came with a bonus. It made me hate racism. It taught me to recognize it, even when it was well hidden. The fact is, I haven't lived in the South for more than 2 decades. The other truth is, every time I go home (which is VERY, VERY seldom since both my parents are dead,) there's a place on the road where something lifts from my chest. Some invisible weight that I don't even notice until it's gone seems to ease and my body reaches a state of relaxation that I cannot describe. I can't give you a mile marker or a town name. But it's somewhere south of Nashville, some time after the trees along the sides of the road become mostly tall pines. Somewhere after the kudzu starts covering anything that isn't moving. Somewhere after little BBQ joints start popping up along the side of the road. There's a place out there where my body seems to recognize that it's almost home and I love it. I love those pines. Always did, despite the fact that where I'm from, they're considered trash trees. And BBQ will never, ever be anything but a smoked pork butt that's been slow cooked until it's literally falling off the bone. And sweet iced tea is the most popular drink, often served in Mason jars just because that's what's sitting around.

Southern culture is not about racism. It's about family and friends and hot nights filled with crickets and lightning bugs and slow rolling storms. It's about honesty and hard work and never, ever letting someone who doesn't know you tell you that you need to be ashamed of who you are or where you were born. Southern pride is a very real thing. Whatever mistakes my Southern ancestors made don't belong on my shoulders and I won't let anyone put that weight there. I am a Southern woman and no matter how long I live up here amongst the Yankees (nor the fact that I married one of them) will change who or what I am. If I live to be 100 and die and am buried up here, I will still be a Southern woman and I will still be proud of that fact.

So, if you've got a repertoire of Southern jokes or some foolish notion that the South in general, and Mississippi in particular are the root of all racist evil, then you better keep those things to yourself when you're around me. Because that's one thing I will set you straight on in a hurry. Someday, maybe I'll get a chance to move back below the Mason-Dixon Line. My husband loves it down there. He loves the way life is slower, less harried. I won't ever go back to my hometown. It's a long story, but there are just too many painful memories there. But I wouldn't mind living down South somewhere. Some place where my house can be surrounded by tall pines like these:

I actually sang this song as part of my school chorus. Gotta love Elvis, even if you aren't Southern!

YeeHa, Y'all!