When Kudzu’s Gone, Who Covers the Mailbox?

In Georgia, the state in which I was spawned, kudzu isn't just a plant—it's a roommate who doesn't pay rent. Many fine folks not from the South are questioning what this kudzu plant I speak of is. It is something on the order of ivy with a good night of liquor under its belt and thus has the confidence of a college-age jock who lacks that proper once-in-a-lifetime attitude adjustment.

This stuff grows like a mixture of MiracleGro and puberty. If you sit still long enough, kudzu will knit you into a cozy cocoon. Give it enough time, and it will suck you up in its leafy green like a python swallowing a pony at the zoo.

Kudzu has the ability to take over barns, fences, and even the family dog. It grows faster than gossip at a church potluck. Legend has it, kudzu once tried to choke out the Mississippi River, but it got full and took a nap.

I grew up with this mess everywhere, and it was hard to kill like Steven Seagal in 1990. You can't pull it up, burn it off, or cuss it into submission. It is the honey badger of vine plants, and it doesn't give one solitary shit.

If you know what you're doing, though, the leaves are edible. I know because I have eaten fried kudzu.

I've read that we have the Japanese to thank for all of this and that the kudzu plant made its way to America in the late 1870s. Who knows what was so exciting about Georgia that it wanted to stay like the last kid at a horticultural birthday party, but here we are.

From what I've seen so far, the party favors must have been old barns and junked-out antique Fords since it takes over anything and everything it can grow on.

My uncle tried to tame it once on his farm with a herd of goats. It sounded logical as they had an appetite for everything they could find, much like the kudzu, including old editions of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, which is more than I could say for my uncle. He used them to line things, and my aunt wanted the coupons.

You'd think a herd of paper-scarfing goats could finish off that much leafy goodness, but no, those little walking lawnmowers ran out of room in their bellies long before they ran out of kudzu. They finally gave up and used it for shade. A wise decision, I thought, but my uncle disagreed.

"Who the hell do I have to sacrifice to get rid of this damned kudzu?" He blurted this as a goat lovingly called Sprocket attempted to chew through a garden hose.

"Not me," I affirmed, "Maybe you should try Jesse. Daddy says he's about as useful as a football bat." He shot me a wilting glance and answered, "Nah. He ain't even worth that."

Jesse was an egotistical little pisser who would have had a future in politics if he'd even had the most basic horse sense. He was good at mimicry. I have to admit it served him well. He was great with his hands, but not with original thought, just like the kudzu.

Uncle Bill chose chemical violence instead. The chemicals made a big stink everywhere, ran off the goats, and honestly, I think it just made the kudzu angrier. Now, he had the problem of the stench and needed more feed for the animals, and both of them were mad at him.

He did what any frustrated, overgrown child would do without a leash and boundaries: He tried to burn the whole mess down.

That brought the cops and the fire department, who asked Bill for his burn permit, and he likewise made the request of which ass cheek they desired he load his buckshot into.

I told you he was frustrated.

The whole fiasco went off better than it ever would nowadays. Nobody helped him ride the lighting or asked him to spread 'em and cough; they just told him to call if the house caught on fire.

Infernos do not resolve kudzu empires. They just grow back in a few days and bring friends. Many of us have simply accepted defeat and named kudzu the state plant of everywhere below the Mason-Dixon line.

Uncle Bill finally called some professionals who had their own black magic way to deal with it and finally made the viney marauders go away. The next time I went there, I was met with the eerie sight of bare hillsides and fences without their green coat. For the first time, I saw his backyard. Turns out he's got a pool.

I don't think he even knew that.

The infestation has been slower, making its way into Texas. I have heard that it is here, and I might have seen it a time or two, but it is so burned into my youth and adulthood that I have tuned it out, I think. I hadn't realized how much kudzu had become part of the Southern identity.

Us older dogs spit and cuss at the mere mention of kudzu, but the Millennials are all about having fun with it. To an extent, I get it. Nothing says 'Southern charm' like a selfie in front of a kudzu-covered silo. Then again, these are the folks who think it's fair game to take selfies at funerals. They don't have to work at it unless they have adopted a fad of some sort. I think the kids call it 'homesteading.'

Somehow, craft beer is always involved. Or soap.

Either way, as long as kudzu's growing, you know the South is still the South. Its persistence mirrors the stubborn, enduring spirit of the South. And if we are anything, it's stubborn. We can make mules look soft.

No matter how much life tries to mow us down, we grow right back—stronger and greener. Kudzu is a metaphor for Southern resilience; we're both impossible to get rid of and proud of it.

As I ponder it, the plant is like an ex you didn't realize you cared about—until you remembered why you broke up.