I’ve been itching to stop itching. The scratching began with a little reddish patch that worked its way over one shin, jumped across my crotch and took over a thigh, then rapidly took hold of small bits of turf around my belly, arms and neck.
Can you say uncomfortable? The problem, as usual, can be traced back to that moment after I left the place with the printing press two years ago and decided I would conquer my lawn. As I’ve reported here ad nauseum, the war with my yard has taken a toll – bumps, scrapes, cuts and falls; mosquito and tick bites; sunburn, battle fatigue and, now, poison ivy.
Ignoring all those three-leafed weeds as I go about pulling them from my lawn doesn’t mean they will ignore me. In fact, I’ve scratched my way across my yard for two years, breaking out now and again with small signs of the toxic stuff. I won those battles, suffering only a little discomfort. Not this time.
After nights of little sleep, bathing in calamine lotion and becoming addicted to Benadryl, I finally waved the white flag and called for medical assistance. My doctor sent in the big guns – Prednisone, served up in massive dosage. After just a day, I could sense the tide of battle was turning and victory seemed possible.
Now, a week later, the battle of Ivy fields is a fading memory and mankind, yet again, has prevailed over the expansionist hopes of plant life – at least its impact. Unfortunately, the war rages on; my yard calling out to me for help. It remains a gruesome mess of damaged turf, weeds and debris.
My days of rest are coming to an end and I will soon be grabbing my weed wacker and heading back into battle. I know that glory hides in the dawn, tucked behind a fallen pine cone, buried underneath a blooming dandelion. I can hear the mowers starting up now, my neighbors puttering about in support. Damn, how I love the smell of exhaust in the morning!