Every year around this time, this humid, wet, hot time, I get the notion that, once again, who I really am has nothing to do with theatre, writing, or teaching. No, who I am, in fact, is a Farmer. I drag out the tools from the side of the house and cultivate the small patch of earth I have laid claim to, over by the magnolia.

I also track down a few unfortunate terra cotta pots that, for most of the year until spring rolls back around, lay dormant around the house, full of aged dirt and some off-shoot Christmas ornaments that I, at some point, thought would look good if decoratively situated and carefully placed inside them.

Everything gets wiped down, cleaned out, and reconfigured.

It is no surpise then that last week, I found myself standing in my front yard, doing my garden-thinking: What will you plant this year, Kris? I thought.

My answer? Squash, cucumber, peppers, dill (always dill), rosemary, oregano, but above all, mint.

I love me some mint.

Amanda and I, thus, found our way to Lowe’s…after we came up mint-empty at the Co-Op. I don’t want you thinking that I automatically go first to the big franchises for all my gardening needs. I go there second.

The Co-Op having disappointed us in the mint department, left us with only Lowe’s as a next-best choice. I suppose we could have fingered the pitiful flora at Wal-Mart, but why.

As we’d checked off our list, again mostly at the Co-Op, I began to have a few second doubts at Lowe’s. The tomato plants seemed a tad bigger here. So, we bought a couple of them.  And here, at Lowe’s, I also found Greek oregano, not originally on my list, so we added that as well. But, where on earth was the mint?

Finally, after digging through rows and rows of sage, thyme, mosquito plants, lamb’s ear (which I still can’t understand, as an herb) and stevia (which I think is manmade), Amanda located the one mint plant left in the entire store.

She cried, “Eureka!” (We really say things like Eureka!, Egads!, Heavens to Betsy!, Cease and desist!,  etc. as a means of self-entertaining) and from way back of the rolling piece of scaffold on which the herbs were placed, out came a mint plant.

I think.

It was beat-up, diseased-looking, and half-dead, but I’m pretty sure it was, indeed, a mint plant.

And here I’d thought you couldn’t kill mint.

Nevertheless, we took it up to the counter to be purchased because we really like mint; it goes well in juleps, you know.

But, then, as Andrew, the store clerk, began scanning our items, I had a change of heart. I just didn’t want us to pay for a plant that was, for all intents and purposes, stupid. I mean, all this thing had to do was sit in a biodegradable container and grow.

It seems that it was unable to do even this much.

I told Andrew, No thanks. We wanted good mint. And this was all they had, but I didn’t want it, anymore. Sorry.

Andrew cast about several suspicious glances a la the original Law and Order, and leaned in over the Miracle Gro Seed Starter Mulch with Miracle Gro. (Not a company known for its marketing skill, I guess).  He gestured that we should lean in as well.

So, we did.

“You really want some mint?” He whispered.

“Yes, we do,” I whispered back.

“All right, then forget this.” He pitched the life-support mint off to the side, where I noticed other untouchables had also been discarded. (This reminded me to start a compost pile).

“I live over at the apartments across from the Baptist church by the hospital? Apartment number 4. I’ve got the best mint around, I’m not lying, and you can have as much as you want, no strings attached. If the lady next door comes out, asking who you are, just tell her Andrew sent you.”

“Are you kidding.” I started to ask, but Amanda had already pulled out her iPhone to Google map his address. She wanted mint even more than I did.

Twenty minutes later, we had a plastic grocery sack, our trusty trowel, and were being led by GPS to Andrew’s mint-ridden front yard where, true to his word, there was enough mint to beat the band.

(We also say things like “to beat the band” though I have no idea what it means).

We got into stealth-mode, despite the fact that it was broad daylight and located in a part of the yard that made being inconspicuous impossible, and we dug up all the mint our hearts desired. We contemplated leaving Andrew a note, saying Thanks.

But, we didn’t.

We just committed the crime and drove back home.

Which is, in my book, how all crime should be committed.  Do the deed, then go home. And do something with what you stole. In this case, as Lowe’s says, ”Let’s build something together.”

After all that is their mission…and I’m pretty sure it’s Andrew who holds the hammer.

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• After that, I ate my chocolate cobbler in silence.

It didn’t, how shall I say this without hurting my feelings, make a whole lot of sense. I’ve spent most of this morning trying to be OK with it because every day can’t be a diamond.

Indeed, most of them are just broken pieces of coal.

One of these men is not like the other because he stole a diamond.

But, but…that, that’s OK.

The whole point of starting a blog was to give myself room to make writer’s mistakes with the option of accountability, depending on how many read the blog and felt the need to comment. I’d fallen into a rut, as a playwright and poet; I needed a break from “real” writing*.

So, I started a blog.

I know that doesn’t sound right, but it’s in my blood; I’m that kind of reader, too. When I get my fill of academic (or you might also know this as required) reading, I trade that book for another, something of fluff, and read it, instead. I believe in more literary circles it’s known as escapist literature.

It’s how I discovered both Wicked by Gregory Macguire, who doesn’t capitalize the “g” in his last name, and the trendy Twilight saga by Stephenie Meyer, who spells her first name with the rarely seen second “e.” I also, and proudly, managed to get through the entire 12-volume collection of the Left Behind series, and with a straight face, I should add; I will make no comment about the spellings of either of these two authors’ names, though.

Superstitious, you know.

Still, can’t argue with this: there’s no greater escape than the end of the world.

But, this idea’s hingent – a new word of mine – on the fact that escapist literature, by my definition, is already written. Its ridiculous  flights of fancy have been penned, to the page, and consumed by eager readers like myself who reach such moments of complete desolation that they find themselves perusing ingredients on average, everyday groceries for the escapist qualities the exotic ingredients offer.

Try it sometime: flip over a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and prepare to be transported to a world where the beaches are covered in sodium tripolyphosphate and Yellow 5. Dig your feet into the warm whey by-product and let the enzymes tickle your toes as you bathe in the rays of milk protein concentrate with >2% citric acid.

No sunscreen necessary.

They melt in your hand, not in your mouth.

I think, and quite rightly, this is why grocery stores sell the traditional “dime store” novels, usually found smack-dab in the middle of the store.  And I’m grateful for that; I’m glad they do. It’s the perfect spot between Roman Meal bread on the one side and Manchego cheese on the other. 

Amanda would never have found Charlaine Harris, without the clever use of this consumer design concept.

It wasn’t even her popular Sookie Stackhouse novels that she found, either. It was a separate series, completely, of five, I believe. I think all this woman does is write, write, write.

Like I’m supposed to be doing.

Last week, someone asked me what new play I was working on. I sucked in a sharp breath, remembering, “Oh, that’s right, I’m a playwright.”

This is that conversation.

What I said to them was, “Well, I’ve been sort of floating between ideas.”

They said, “Like what?”

I said, “Like, you know, what I usually write. Stuff like that.”

Pause.

They said, “Oh. Ok.”

Pause.

“But, I’ve been doing a lot of writing, you know, just not plays. I mean, I’ve started several new plays, but I’ve…I’ve…I’ve. I keep a blog.”

Dead silence. I keep a blog. Really? I sounded like a sugar pimp.

“I didn’t know people still read blogs,” was the nearly innocent reply.

Pause.

“Yes, I blog. And, some people read it, actually. I think they even enjoy it.”

I’m not sure he was convinced because he didn’t ask for the website; most people would, you know, in polite conversation. And, so I stood there thinking: I know blogs have come down a bit in the world, but I still think they’re culturally significant. I still think they’re of vital importance. (*And I happen to consider it “real” writing).

I mean, never before in the history of civilization has such an opportunity been given: you can get online, type up a few of your odd opinions, publish them immediately for the world-at-large and quite frankly, start a revolution. Just like that.

Even on Twitter…142 words or less.

Which brings us back to a really scary point: people just don’t like to read. This person, god love him for a liar, was interested in a play because he could watch it. Not because he wanted to read it.

That’s a challenge, to presume I could write anything worthy of escape.

I do try, though. Very hard. I originally started out forcing myself to join the 1000 Words Mark or Bust campaign for blogging, but maybe that’s too long for an escape route?

Are those too many words for you?

Second only to the Bible.

Because it’s no cakewalk to write 1000 words a day. Look at my previous blog record. Some days I couldn’t do it (or didn’t have time) to create brand new sentences for mass consumption.

That’s why today’s blog stops at 900 words…roughly.

Oh, and don’t worry, you’re welcome.

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