The South is experiencing another episode of seasonal disorder syndrome.
No, Georgia, it is not spring. Stop growing grass. Stop misting the hills with pale green.
It's January. Even the birds are confused by now.
Keith wandered into the kitchen last night. The look on his face was something between bafflement and determination.
"I refuse to turn on the A/C in January," he declared.
This is not a statement I ever though I would hear, but I certainly agreed with it.
I am writing this post, by the way, because I am procrastinating on my other work.
Also, I killed a mint plant.
Who even does that? Who kills a mint plant?
And it wasn't just any mint plant; it was the Mint Of My Father.
Or, the herb he bought at Winn Dixie (yes, that is a grocery story name- we could have crossed the street and gone to the Piggly Wiggly) over Thanksgiving.
Some of that mint was sacrificed for Asian soup, but not all. The rest lived on in a plastic cup with nothing but water and its own roots to remain alive.
Which it wasn't doing very well, so I went into the back yard and scooped up some soil from the long neglected and abandoned flower bed and made a little pot home for it.
And therein lay the problem. I guess one should never, never use outdoor soil for indoor plants. My mint caught a very bad case of spider mites and turned slowly brown and wilted.
I moved it outside now, so that, in its final days, it can enjoy the balmy breeze and warm rains of January.
It sits out there now, gasping its last trembling breaths, unable to stand upright, its bronzed leaves lifting feebly up in the air as if reaching for some hazy vision of plant utopia that only it can see.
Farewell, mint plant. Farewell.
You were tasty and refreshing.
