That headline got your attention. Good. Today’s essay is like those mangled cars shown to high-school students to warn them off drinking and driving.
The topic: Poison ivy.
As I write, I’m suffering.
And, no. Not phony melodrama. Full-on, piercing, misery-every-minute discomfort.
A few days ago, I trekked into the stand of trees behind our house. I putzed about, pulling vines and assorted plants that had offended my sense of order. I then hauled the harvest to the yard-waste bin.
Hours later, a bump appeared on my left wrist. A bug bite, I thought.
It grew wider and redder each day.
Then came more: near my left knee. On my right leg near the ankle. At my waist.
Note: poison ivy rash at the very spot crossed by jockey briefs elastic is as painful as a lifetime penalty to perpetually diagram sentences.
Today, the knee and wrist splotches are oozing pus.
I’m sorry for that last paragraph. Consider it a public service. Y’all must be warned.
Poison ivy – the plant may have been poison sumac – is misery.
Misery in green.
For fun: The Coasters perform ‘Poison Ivy’
“Poison Ivy” hit No. 1 on the Billboard R&B chart in 1959. It’s presented with this essay at the suggestion of reader Emily Toth.
