I like nature, really ... I do. However, sometimes, despite all that life-giving biodiversity stuff, there comes a time when I wander from the straight and narrow and may toss a few discouraging words at some things ‘natural’.
This sour view of nature is often foreshadowed by a series of unfortunate misadventures, like a Canada weekend well recalled from a few years ago.
Poison ivy. We all know that it’s out there; we all learn how to recognize and avoid it. We all know that if you wade knee-deep in it and don’t wash off afterwards you are running a high risk of getting a nasty skin rash
But what if you were too busy to thoroughly clean up after a romp through the lovely stuff? Even just once? Is that any reason to get it?
The first blisters appeared on my wrist, just three hard, itchy dots. No problem, I can manage this. The next day a series of blisters showed up on my inner upper arm. How they got there I don’t know. Still not so bad, but the ones on my wrist were getting annoyingly itchy. And weeping. Yuck!
I applied my ancient remedy of crushed jewelweed, a folk medicine that actually works on most people’s skin. Always did the trick for me. But not this time ... the wrist site gets a small infection (how is that possible?), and the arm site needs bandages to keep me from scratching the skin away!
And then, guess what? A patch of poison ivy rash starts on my knee. One bump, then two. Two, then five. Five, then 24. Apparently when one’s gardening pants rub against one’s knee, oils can be spread around. Oh, the things you learn!
Just as the rashes start to heal and dry up, nature deals a second blow!
Young grandson Toby and I were learning the fine art of hitting things with a hammer and using the phrase “That’ll fix it.” His hammer was plastic, which was a godsend to the patio furniture. But being a grandpa, I felt that it was high time he learned to handle a real hammer, despite what his mother, his grandmother, his aunt, and everyone else may think.
Now I know what you’re thinking ... but no, I didn’t hit my thumb with the hammer. What I did do was sit down on the deck to show him how to start a real nail into some real wood with a real hammer. Tap-tap-tap ... OW!
Looking down I see a large bumblebee tumble backwards off my leg and into the grass. Where it came from I don’t know, and why it decided to pick on me on one of the few days I chose to wear short pants, it’s as if the fates conspired against me.
So, there I am, hammer poised in mid-strike, bee venom pouring like fire through my leg, Toby looking at me as if asking why nail hammering has to be so stressful, he gauging his observations from my really big eyes, my clenched teeth, my red, then white, then red again face. I reach over to the door frame and hammer the doorbell ... with my finger. Julie arrives and saves the day (hooray for baking soda!).
We now join our hero later that evening, as he whimpers in bed about nasty bees and stupid poison ivy. Sleep won’t come easily tonight. Especially not when at 3 a.m. there comes noises from the attic. (Note: we live in a barn that has been converted into a house; the hayloft is still open and is known to us as “the attic”, a place where we store enough junk to fill a moderately-sized flea market.)
From the attic, directly over my head, comes the pitter-patter of little feet: pitter-patter, CRASH. Pitter-patter, BAM. Pitter-patter, CRASH-Bam-THUNK. Ah, a raccoon has come for a visit. I roll out of bed, grab a flashlight and slippers, and go up to evict the marauder.
From the top of the ladder I flick on the light to see a raccoon, no, make that two raccoons, no, actually four raccoons ... no, make that a momma raccoon and five youngsters! The kids look like they are having fun.
Momma and I growl menacingly at each other. As I move towards her, growling my best anti-raccoon growl ever, I bump against a table. I bump this table with my leg exactly in the spot where the bumble bee nailed me earlier. I am not amused, not in the least.
The next hour is spent running extension cords, hanging work lights, finding squeaky old fans, and setting up a garage sale worthy radio to turn the raccoon palace into a raccoon hell-hole. It works. The rest of the night is spent raccoon-free.
And other than the mildly annoying squeaky fan and the tin-box sound of a radio station not quite dialed in, the rest of the night is spent sleeping, sort of, in a tossing and turning kind of way.
I think tomorrow I’ll go hang out in a shopping mall somewhere. I hope that your Canada Day goes better than mine.
