I thought I was immune to poison ivy.   So many times when I was growing up my sister and I were in the same places and she would develop horrible poison ivy and I had none.   So when I started to do yard work a few weeks ago and was pulling ivy, it never occurred to me that some of the ivy might be of the poison variety.   I did wash my hands carefully when I came indoors but did not use the brown soap that my parents had always instructed us to use if we suspected we had come in contact with poison ivy and did not scrub under my rings.   I noticed a few scratches on my wrist and shin but I thought that they were likely from working near the rose bushes.

Two days later the wretched rash appeared and I learned the truth of “Leaves of three, let them be.”   As the rash spread and spread I realized the futility of over the counter treatments and sought help at the nearby walk-in clinic.   The doctor took one look at me and said “I will give you everything I can.”   A shot, steroid pills (dashing my Olympic dreams) and expensive ointments, and three weeks later the rash is finally fading.   I’m not sure the treatments hastened my recovery or if the rash simply had to run its course.  As I was recuperating I read the latest issue of Women’s Day magazine which ironically included an article on how to recognize poison ivy.  With it as a guide I searched my yard and am posting these pictures as a public service announcement.

We researched various means  of killing the poison ivy plants and learned that the Spanish Angora goat loves to eat poison ivy, but housing one did not seem feasible in our suburban neighborhood, certainly not until we had fixed the broken gate on our fenced back yard.   We sprayed but it seemed to have no effect.   Then I sprayed the plants with salt water and the leaves immediately started to shrivel up.   It was like watching the wicked witch of my yard being doused with a pail of water.   I wish the rash could have been cured as quickly.

Father’s Day has been hard for me ever since my father died 23 years ago.   But after we bought my childhood home four years ago, it has been even harder.   I look out on the backyard and remember the garden he so carefully tended and long for corn so fresh it isn’t picked until the water is boiling.   I remember summer days, with my father lying in the hammock we gave him for father’s day one year.   I remember him setting up the backyard sprinkler for my sister and me to run through on the hot New Jersey summer afternoons or setting up the croquet set for us to play.   I feel guilty that I haven’t  planted a garden but I know that I could never compete with his gardening skills.

My parents loved to sit outside, on this bench in the backyard.  My mother left it when she moved away but one of the owners before us either took it with them or gave it away.   It is there now only in pictures and my memories. I must have been the photographer of this picture as my mother was not too adept with cameras.   Alas, I wasn’t the best photographer either but even though he was a perfectionist, my father never complained when I framed the pictures poorly and tops of heads were cut off.    My mother died a month ago, and when my sister and I cleaned out her apartment we found my father’s wallet that she had saved when he died.   In it was one dollar, three pictures, one of my sister and me when we were little and each of our high school graduation pictures, his drivers’ license and social security card, and his work ID card showing a very young and handsome man.   We brought it to show my mother and she kissed the picture goodbye.  Today, I kissed the picture, too.