Before the plant was considered a scourge, it was used for decoration, as livestock fodder, and to fight erosion.
In February of 1937, a newspaper columnist in Asheville, North Carolina, announced the start of a poetry contest. The prompt? He wanted odes to kudzu, the broad-leafed vine that, people would later say,
grows so fast it is best fertilized with motor oil. As the columnist
wrote, it was a great muse: the vine was “good for nearly everything but
influenza or frostbite.” It was also not a hard ask poetically: “Who is
so poor a poet that he can’t find a rhyme for kudzu?”
Over the next few weeks, responses came
creeping in. The winner, who called herself “The Countess of Kudzu,”
managed three different rhymes, based on varying pronunciations of the
plant:
“In our section of the woods youSave your soil and soul with kudzuNo one suffers from the floods whoGives a little time to kudzuNor gash nor gully ere denudes whoCovers up his land with kudzu.”
If you’re up on your contemporary botanicals, you may recognize kudzu as a well-known scourge, prone to indiscriminately overgrowing
everything from forests to fields to abandoned buildings. For decades
in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, though, the plant was not a
vegetative villain, but a horticultural hero. Used as everything from a
decoration to a feed crop to an erosion-fighter, it was lauded for its
fast growth and near-indestructibility—the same qualities that now have
people building barriers around it, injecting its roots with helium, and even lighting it on fire to get rid of it.
Kudzu debuted in the U.S. in 1876, as part of the Philadelphia Centennial Exposition, which also introduced the country to such all-American classics as the telephone, the time capsule, and the Statue of Liberty’s torch. A sort of plant diplomat, it was brought over from Japan—where it had long been used as livestock feed, as well as to make paper—and installed in the Expo’s Japanese Garden.
There, it wowed visitors with its dense
foliage and purple blooms: traits that, combined with its tendency to
spread rapidly, made it ideal for gardeners hoping to inject some quick
and easy green into their environs. Nurseries began carrying seeds and
young plants, granting them rave reviews in their catalogs. “This is the
most remarkable hardy climbing vine of the age,” read one kudzu ad
from 1909. “For rapidly covering arbors, fences, dead or old trees,
porches or rockeries there is nothing to equal it.” Before long, people began calling it the “front porch vine,” and happily covering their homes with kudzu toupees.
Two of these people were Charles and
Lillie Pleas, a couple of farmers living in Chipley, Florida. The
Pleases bought some kudzu seeds in 1903, and planted them around their
brush pile in an attempt to hide the brush from view. As Charles
describes in a 1909 article for the Ocala Evening Star,
the kudzu soon outgrew its patch, creating a two-and-a-half-foot-deep
tangle of vines and leaves near their house, and creeping into the
driveway, the neighbor’s yard, and the stables.
Seeing how much his horse liked nibbling
on it, Charles decided to cure some kudzu into hay—it smelled sweet, he
wrote, and remained bright green—and test it for nutritional value.
Seeing that it was comparable to other popular feeds, the Pleases soon
began selling kudzu seedlings as a forage crop, pitching it as something
that would fill a seasonal need. “The forage plant that will tide the
farmer and stock raiser over the long, hot, dry summer … will fill a
long felt want,” Charles wrote. “Kudzu will do it.”
Word of this new forage plant spread, and plenty of Southern farmers used it: newspaper archives show rave reviews from North Carolina (“cows and horses are greedy for it”) to Louisiana
(“its growth seems simply magical”). But things didn’t really take off
until 1935, when the U.S. Government got in on the action.
That year marked the creation of the Soil Conservation Service (SCS), a USDA sub-agency dedicated to fighting erosion. As Mart Allen Stewart explains in an article for the Georgia History Quarterly,
the South at the time was suffering from land integrity problems,
losing precious topsoil to everything from railroad construction to
cotton monoculture. Kudzu, the SCS thought, could hold the very land
together, shielding it from further breakdown, and even rebuilding the
land by trapping sediment in its tendrils. Plus, it was a nitrogen
fixer, and could help to rehabilitate nutrient-starved fields. “What,
short of a miracle, can you call this plant?” the head of the SCS, Hugh
Hammond Bennett, asked in Reader’s Digest in 1945.
The SCS set up kudzu nurseries, taking
clues from the Peases and others who had grown the crop for forage.
Seedlings “were shipped throughout the Southeast and distributed to
farmers, who applied the vine to rilled and gullied croplands, and to
railroads and highway departments that planted the seedlings along
exposed rights-of-way,” writes Stewart. The SCS also provided economic
incentives to farmers, paying them up to $8 an acre to plant the vine,
the equivalent of about $140 today. It worked: “Between 1935 and 1946,
more than half a million acres in the South were planted in kudzu,”
Stewart tabulates.
Meanwhile, a cultural kudzu renaissance
also picked up steam, led largely by a Georgia farmer named Channing
Cope. As Derek Alderman details in Geographical Review,
after Cope revitalized his own land with the plant in the late 1920s,
he became a kind of kudzu evangelist, with “an almost religious
confidence in [its] ability to rebuild the southern landscape.” Cope
created a kudzu-focused media empire, singing the plant’s praises in his
newspaper column (“Kudzu is the Lord’s indulgent gift to Georgians”),
on his daily radio show, and in a book called Front Porch Farmer (“we would be idiotic to refuse its help”).
In the early 1940s, Cope started the
Kudzu Club of America, which held annual pageants and kudzu-planting
contests, and eventually reached 20,000 members. Even as the rest of the
country soured on the plant, he refused to turn on it, which may have
led to his own demise: according to one friend,
the heart attack that killed Cope in 1961 occurred when he was trying
to run off some teenagers who were hanging out in a patch of kudzu on
his property.
Throughout, there had been some hints that all of this was too good to be true. In a 1914 issue of The Garden Magazine,
columnist Nina R. Allen reports that, seduced by catalog images of
climbing vines with “innumerable clusters” of flowers, she bought a few
in hopes of covering an ugly fence. After planting them, they indeed
covered the fence, as well as much of the backyard. “It has never
produced a blossom,” she wrote, “though every spring from twenty to
thirty sprouts have shot up from the root, sprawling shiftlessly in
every direction and waiting for somebody to come and do something.” She
ended up moving away, leaving the weedy interlopers for the next
occupant.
Some farmers were skeptical, too. “I have
been asked by many if it can be got rid of, and if it doesn’t become a
pest,” Pleas wrote in 1909. He offered a bit of a non-answer: “Plant it
where it can stay, and you will never want to get rid of it.” In 1915,
other states were singing its praises as a forage crop, the Honolulu Advertiser pointed out that “as far as Hawaii is concerned … the Kudzu vine is here considered simply as a very troublesome weed.”
Eventually, the rest of the country came
to this conclusion as well. Beginning in the 1950s, Stewart writes,
kudzu was causing a number of infrastructural problems: climbing
telephone poles, overgrowing native trees, and shorting out power lines,
and massing on railroad tracks and causing trains to skid. In 1953,
kudzu was removed from the list
of USDA-recommended cover plants. In 1970, it was officially labeled a
weed plant, and by 1997, it had been promoted to “Noxious Weed.” In many
states, it retains that title to this day, accompanying such infamous species as poison hemlock and the giant hogweed.
Eighty years after that Asheville poetry
contest, any verse about kudzu is by necessity more complicated. Some
characterizations remain straight-up villainous: one contemporary song describes its tendrils as “green, mindless, unkillable ghosts,” and articles and books call it “the vine who ate the South.”
But even as recent decades
have seen prolonged efforts to beat back the plant’s spread, kudzu has
experienced a bit of a metaphorical resurgence—many authors and artist
consider it a rich symbol of complexity and resilience, using it to
stand in for everything from forbidden desire to the region’s complex relationship with its own past.
No matter how hard we may try to uproot it, kudzu is entwined with
American culture, hanging on through the ups and downs. What could be
more poetic than that?
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