BOOTS FROM THE FARM
CAN BRING YOU HARM!
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Leaves of three, now let me see....
It started as a couple of red bumps on the tender underside of my right forearm.
The dots multiplied and started connecting – a constellation of angry comets streaking up my arm.
From bumps to blisters, the galaxy grew and spread.
Two words describe it best.
Poison ivy.
I don’t usually “take poison,” as the old-timers say. My brother would break out if someone said the words to him. He’s had it just about every place imaginable.
The Ump, too.
But not me.
Until now, that is.
Shouldn’t there be some benefits from getting older? I still get acne occasionally. Pimples should not be a mid-aged affliction.
Middle age brings a slew of its own problems. Aches and pains in places that never hurt before. Vision that has you adjusting your newspaper like the slide on a trombone.
Gray hair. White hair. Hair sprouting where there was no hair before.
If all things were fair, middle age should offer some benefits. Like – if you have never had poison ivy before, you should not start getting it when you are 45.
Initially I thought perhaps I had picked a bad weed in the flower beds or the vegetable garden out back. I used to be one of those weed-as-you-go people, marching through the yard looking for leafy intruders. No more of that!
As the infection spread and grew, the Ump put two and two together and confessed.
There is a saying about poison ivy: Leaves of three, let them be. Or leaves of three, beware of me. Or leaves of three, don’t touch me. You get the picture.
I am rewriting that saying to conform to my problem.
“Boots from the farm can bring you harm.”
The Ump had spent several days working in fence rows on the farm. He came home in the evenings talking about how he had gotten into some “poison” and he probably would break out at any moment.
That did not happen.
However, he did break one of his boot laces and asked me to buy him some new ones.
When I was telling my mother this story, she broke in before I even got to the punch line and said “Why didn’t you let him lace up his own boots?”
Maybe that is the difference between someone who has been married nearly 50 years and someone who has not been married six.
The Ump was at a game. The boots were on the porch. I picked them up and pulled the laces out of both boots and put the new laces in – making sure that I came in contact with just as much poison ivy oil as possible, I guess.
Now, in addition to enduring the maddening itching, I get to hear everyone’s poison ivy story. Next door neighbor Danny had it so bad that he spent three days in bed wearing nothing but a white sheet. (Too much information.) Bleach was his recommendation.
A friend at a local campsite told me she had some lye soap made by the Mennonites that would do the trick. I didn’t ask if what made it potent was the lye or the religion of its makers.
The checker in Wal-Mart suggested that I coat it in clear nail polish. Uh, no.
I have learned several interesting poison ivy facts.
When the blisters burst, it’s just water that leaks out – not more poison. You can keep getting reinfected by handling the same clothes or boots, but not from your own rash.
Urushiol is the name of the evil oil. If you suspect you have come in contact with poison ivy, wash your hands or whatever in cool water. No soap because soap actually can spread the urushiol. And warm water opens your pores to the poison.
A drop of urushiol the size of the head of pin is enough to make 500 people break out – that is how potent the stuff is.
Armed with knowledge, anti-itch crème and Caladryl (the clear kind that doesn’t turn my arm pink), I am trying to be as patient as possible and just wait it out. I now have a patch on my jaw and lip and neck, on my upper arm and leg.
The result of this experience is that I look at every weed with suspicion. I don’t know when I will feel comfortable snatching one out of the flower beds again.
Oh, and the Ump’s farm boots sleep on the porch.
The dots multiplied and started connecting – a constellation of angry comets streaking up my arm.
From bumps to blisters, the galaxy grew and spread.
Two words describe it best.
Poison ivy.
I don’t usually “take poison,” as the old-timers say. My brother would break out if someone said the words to him. He’s had it just about every place imaginable.
The Ump, too.
But not me.
Until now, that is.
Shouldn’t there be some benefits from getting older? I still get acne occasionally. Pimples should not be a mid-aged affliction.
Middle age brings a slew of its own problems. Aches and pains in places that never hurt before. Vision that has you adjusting your newspaper like the slide on a trombone.
Gray hair. White hair. Hair sprouting where there was no hair before.
If all things were fair, middle age should offer some benefits. Like – if you have never had poison ivy before, you should not start getting it when you are 45.
Initially I thought perhaps I had picked a bad weed in the flower beds or the vegetable garden out back. I used to be one of those weed-as-you-go people, marching through the yard looking for leafy intruders. No more of that!
As the infection spread and grew, the Ump put two and two together and confessed.
There is a saying about poison ivy: Leaves of three, let them be. Or leaves of three, beware of me. Or leaves of three, don’t touch me. You get the picture.
I am rewriting that saying to conform to my problem.
“Boots from the farm can bring you harm.”
The Ump had spent several days working in fence rows on the farm. He came home in the evenings talking about how he had gotten into some “poison” and he probably would break out at any moment.
That did not happen.
However, he did break one of his boot laces and asked me to buy him some new ones.
When I was telling my mother this story, she broke in before I even got to the punch line and said “Why didn’t you let him lace up his own boots?”
Maybe that is the difference between someone who has been married nearly 50 years and someone who has not been married six.
The Ump was at a game. The boots were on the porch. I picked them up and pulled the laces out of both boots and put the new laces in – making sure that I came in contact with just as much poison ivy oil as possible, I guess.
Now, in addition to enduring the maddening itching, I get to hear everyone’s poison ivy story. Next door neighbor Danny had it so bad that he spent three days in bed wearing nothing but a white sheet. (Too much information.) Bleach was his recommendation.
A friend at a local campsite told me she had some lye soap made by the Mennonites that would do the trick. I didn’t ask if what made it potent was the lye or the religion of its makers.
The checker in Wal-Mart suggested that I coat it in clear nail polish. Uh, no.
I have learned several interesting poison ivy facts.
When the blisters burst, it’s just water that leaks out – not more poison. You can keep getting reinfected by handling the same clothes or boots, but not from your own rash.
Urushiol is the name of the evil oil. If you suspect you have come in contact with poison ivy, wash your hands or whatever in cool water. No soap because soap actually can spread the urushiol. And warm water opens your pores to the poison.
A drop of urushiol the size of the head of pin is enough to make 500 people break out – that is how potent the stuff is.
Armed with knowledge, anti-itch crème and Caladryl (the clear kind that doesn’t turn my arm pink), I am trying to be as patient as possible and just wait it out. I now have a patch on my jaw and lip and neck, on my upper arm and leg.
The result of this experience is that I look at every weed with suspicion. I don’t know when I will feel comfortable snatching one out of the flower beds again.
Oh, and the Ump’s farm boots sleep on the porch.
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