Skip to main content

Folklife Friday: Poison Ivy

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch. Cry. Scratch again.

Poison oak and poison ivy are horrendous, loathsome enemies of summer that disguise themselves as lovely green plants.

I've known the two pests since I can remember anything, as familiar to my youth as green apples and swimming holes. We had pink splotches from calamine lotion that gave temporary relief, and washing with baking soda helped some. We used every cure we heard about and had access to, but time was the only one that really worked.

Most of us got it, the rash scattered among the chigger bites. A very few escaped because of body chemistry or tough skin or whatever. My baby boy was in that group; a good thing because he has spent much of his life in the woods. My firstborn son, however, was ultra sensitive to it, and exposure required a trip to the doctor for a series of shots. Wise son that he is, if he suspects exposure now, he goes ahead with the shots while the rash and blisters are still immature enough to handle.

When our sons were small, we were living in an old farmhouse that had a wonderful garden spot. The garden was fenced to keep out wildlife and chickens and to keep the weeds under control. Y'all know I don't like clutter, so in the fall when I pulled up the bean poles (stakes, to the uninformed), I threw them over the fence to keep my garden nice and tidy. Next spring, when the young Blue Lakes began to put out tendrils, I rescued the poles and staked the beans. Turns out, the poles had been resting in poison oak plants for several months. It was a warm late-spring day, and I had to constantly wipe the sweat off my face while I was working. Next morning, I woke up feeling strange and nauseated. My face was a puff-ball with my eyes swollen almost together. It was a week, a long, miserable week, before all the swelling went down.
Lesson learned.

Years later, I prepared to pick blackberries by putting on appropriate protective clothing. I decided to wear plastic gloves instead of cloth ones; it made the picking so much easier. I picked for a long time. In some unexplained way, the poison ivy got on my covered arms and the sweat carried it down to my hands in the plastic gloves. The sweat pooled between my fingers. That time, I had huge blisters between my fingers that looked like something from a cheap horror movie. My hands horrified small children and adults alike. Another lesson learned.

Nowadays, if I see a plant lurking near my yard, I point it out to dear husband and he puts some sort of vile chemical on it and it dies. I love the dirt as much as anyone, but when it comes to poison ivy, chemicals are the only way. Its a lesson learned hard.

I try to end these ramblings with a positive note. I'm still thinking.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Holy Smoke Pie

I think it was in the late seventies that I first had Holy Smoke Pie.  It was at a party at Debra Morris Harville's house.  After we ate, Debra had to give the recipe to everyone there.  I came home and made it for my family, and it has been a favorite since then.  I always make it at holiday dinners, because I believe tradition is important.  It has become a favorite of our granddaughters. I've heard it called Chocolate Delight, Four-Layer Chocolate Dessert, and other odd things.  We call it Holy Smoke.  Here is how I make it: Chop us a cup of pecans; set aside. Add a stick of softened butter (NOT margarine) to one cup of self-rising flour. Cut the butter into the flour. Add the chopped pecans, and work it all together. Save two tablespoons of the pecans to sprinkle on top. Pour into a 9" x 12" pan that has been sprayed with cooking oil. Spread it over the bottom of the pan.  It helps to use your hands (o...

Amish in Stantonville, Tennessee

Last week, my sis and her hub went with us to the Amish community near Stantonville, Tennessee.  It was a beautiful day, and we love driving to new places and finding new treasures.  We enjoy these mini-trips we take together, where we giggle a lot and get caught up on everything.  Also, the squirrels ate all our tomatoes, so we needed to find some to buy. You know the food you are buying is fresh when they bring it from the field while you are standing there waiting for it. Here is part of what we brought home, and it was all delicious. Stantonville is located in McNairy County, Tennessee, northwest of Shiloh National Military Park.

Out of the Dirt: Bragg-ing

Like every reader, I have my favorite writers. There have been so many that have stirred my emotions and made me a part of their world, and I'm thankful for that. The one is love the best, the one I cherish , is Rick Bragg. Yesterday, Rick was in our area. We were privileged to see a newly released documentary about his life called Out of the Dirt . Afterwards, he talked to us about family and roots. His first book, All over but the Shoutin' , was recommended to me years ago. Very early in the book, I was thinking, "Who is this? He is writing about me, about my family." I have never actually met anyone in the book, but they are all my neighbors and kinfolks. His other books are just as well-written. In his book, Writing for the Soul , Christian author Jerry Jenkins had this to say about Rick Bragg: I read other writers and strive to be like them. I read others, like Rick Bragg, the Pulitzer Prize-winning New York Times columnist, and simply surrender, knowing I will ...