There’s a corner of my backyard that my kids refer to as “The Secret Garden.” It’s the uppermost patch, right where a storm drainage sewer sits, and it’s been the subject of more landscaping attempts than my hairline.
We, along with the two previous owners, have all tried to make it look presentable—planting flowers, laying down mulch, clearing away a prickly wild berry bush that almost killed the dog we owned when we first moved in. But thanks to the constant water drainage, this corner has become a botanical safe haven for every unsavory weed and plant known to man, including, an aggressive colony of poison ivy.
Now, I have always considered myself immune to poison ivy. I never had a problem with it as a kid, not in Boy Scouts, not during any of my ill-advised childhood adventures, and not even when my own children dragged me through the underbrush in search of treasures in the form of rolly-pollies. I figured I was one of the chosen few—the 1 to 2 percent of the population who can wade through a field of poison ivy and come out smelling like Irish Spring.
Well folks — I assumed wrong. Very very wrong.
It started innocently enough. I was out there, channeling my inner suburban lumberjack, yanking up vines and tossing them into a pile. I was feeling pretty good about myself, too, until about four days later, when my arms and hands erupted in a rash that looked like I’d tried to hug a porcupine. I have never itched this much in my life. I’m talking about the kind of itch that makes you consider sandpaper as a viable medical solution.
Here’s the thing: I have absolutely no self-control when I’m uncomfortable. None. If I’m itchy, I scratch. If I’m hot, I complain. If I’m both, I become a one-man Greek tragedy. My wife, who has the patience of a saint and the medical knowledge of a WebMD enthusiast, took one look at my arms and decided drastic measures were in order. At one point, she actually mummified my arms, presumably to keep me from scratching, but possibly just to keep my oozing boils from giving the children nightmares. The youngest of the Wild Things was already giving me the side eye like I might be the boogieman by that point.
For the past week, I’ve been walking around in long sleeves while Georgia’s summer oven is preheating to “broil.” I look like I’m training for a desert marathon, but really, I’m just trying not to claw my own skin off.
I’m currently on a cocktail of remedies: a steroid pack, a steroid cream, and a maximum-strength poison ivy scrub that I apply so often I’m surprised I haven’t dissolved.
So, if you see me out and about, wearing long sleeves in 90 degree weather, I’m not being clueless or trying to make a fashion statement. I’m simply the latest victim of the great outdoors. I attempted to venture outdoors the other night and was promptly attacked by mosquitos — adding to my plight. I wonder which Biblical plague I’ll be experiencing next week. Knowing Georgia’s weather, I’m betting on hail.
B.T. Clark
B.T. Clark is an award-winning journalist and the Publisher of The Georgia Sun. He has 25 years of experience in journalism and served as Managing Editor of Neighbor Newspapers in metro Atlanta for 15 years and Digital Director at Times-Journal Inc. for 8 years. His work has appeared in several newspapers throughout the state including Neighbor Newspapers, The Cherokee Tribune and The Marietta Daily Journal. He is a Georgia native and a fifth-generation Georgian.
