Poison.

Annoying, aggravating, and agonizing.  Those are three words that describe the results of three shiny leaves that have made the past three weeks of summer less than a treat.  To say that I am itching for winter would be pretty much on target right now, even though the cold and snow that comes along with that season are not on my list of favorites.

Poison ivy has a way of creeping up on farmers.  It loves to invade our fence lines and field boundaries.  It climbs our trees, and sneaks into flower gardens.  It is a nuisance plant whose purpose in life is a mystery to me, except to keep us on our toes when enjoying the outdoors in summer.  My encounters with this devilish plant always leave me wishing I had worn long pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and gloves, despite the 90-plus degree weather that makes shorts, sandals, and tee shirts a much cooler wardrobe for work on the farm.

While there are some people who have never had the experience of poison ivy’s revenge on human skin, I am not one of those fortunate folks who can wade through it and raise nary a welt.  Instead, I seem to be a magnet for its rash-causing oils, even when I am on a tractor seat.  A few have suggested I swallow a few leaves every spring to give me immunity to the poison ivy torment.  While there are some brave souls who may risk an internal outbreak to stop the outside blisters in the future, I am certainly not one of them.

When I was a youngster, I would spend summer days riding my horse, Charlie, along the Swatara Creek with a band of neighborhood kids and their horses and ponies.  We would wade through knee-high poison ivy beds on our way to the water.  Tethering the horses on nearby trees, we would swim and wade the afternoon away, washing the poison ivy oils downstream in the process.  Thankfully, I never got poison ivy from those childhood escapades.

My first reaction to the poison ivy plant caught me unprepared for the plants’ seriousness if not avoided.  I was, once again, wading through a field of poison ivy as a soil conservationist for the United States Department of Agriculture.  This time it was work and not fun that forced me into the tri-leafed enemy.  I was surveying a pond site for a Berks County landowner on one of the hottest days of summer.  The sweat that was pouring off my skin did nothing to wash away the lurking oils, and by the time I got home from work, it was too late.  The damage was done.  And I was destined to get the worst poison ivy rash I ever want to experience.  My face, neck and arms broke out in a raging rash that took all my will power to stop scratching the tormentor's itch.

I welcomed the doctor’s injection of a poison-stopping shot a few days later, when the rash had made me physically ill and totally miserable.  The relief was almost instantaneous as the poison ivy rash met its match.  That first encounter happened thirty years ago, and I still respect the power of the poison ivy plant and try to avoid it.  But sometimes it just sneaks up on me.

Last year I was mowing an older grass stand at my folks’ farm on a day when the warm breeze brought little relief from the sweltering heat that engulfed the tractor.  Little did I realize that the breeze was covering me with a mist of poison ivy oils.  By the time we ate dinner, I began to get my first clue that I was in trouble.  It was too late to do anything but dig out the ointments and brace myself for the incessant itch.  It was another maddening contest between my mind telling me what not to do, and the poison rash forcing me to ignore the message.  This time I toughed it out, determined not to visit the doctor’s office.  Eventually the poison ivy battle was won and my life got back to normal.

While I should have known better after those two experiences, I threw caution to the wind once again this summer and paid the price.  As I attacked the task of cleaning out fence rows where multiflora rose and brush attempt to grow, I failed to notice the shiny leaves sprouting up in my path.  Wanting to finish the job, I trudged on, vowing to wipe out these unwelcome invaders with my herbicide secret weapon at the next opportunity.  Once again, the plant's assault on my skin has been embedded in my memory.  My resolve has been hardened to keep my distance from this sneaky summer-spoiling plant in future years.  The battle scars from this year's rash, several weeks and tubes of anti-itch cream later, will be a reminder that will last at least until the first frost!

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