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this stuff?”
“In the woods, on the old wagon.”
“No, it’s an old chicken coop!”
“Nuh uh.Wagon!"
“Guys, guys.” I put my hands up in the universal signal for Stop, or I’ll cut off the snack foods. “Wagon, coop, who cares? Take me there.”
And so they did.
Sure enough, there was an ancient wheeled whatever barely visible beneath some kind of freaky foliage. Was it ivy? Was it Kudzu? I couldn't tell, and I didn’t want the kids to get any closer. What if the ghastly thing suddenly did its foot-a-day growth dance’and devoured both boys right before my eyes?
No, no, better to stand back and plot its destruction, or at least postponement. You can’t kill Kudzu, but you can maim it.
1 figured we'd start by getting our goats to graze on it. Then, we’d bring in the cows. When they’d chowed it down to nothing but nubs, we’d finish by letting the hens have at it. That would bring it to the brink of the grave.
And if it didn't, we’d resort to Sudoku. One look at that stuff and the darn thing will wish it were dead.
Susan McCorkindale is the author of Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl. Visit her blog about life among kids, cows, and a little bit of “could be Kudzu,” at http:/ /confesswnsofacounterfeitfarmgirl.blogspot.com
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