That headline got your attention. Good. Today’s essay is like those mangled cars shown to high-school students to warn them off drinking and driving.
The topic: Poison ivy.
As I write, I’m suffering.
And, no, not phony melodrama. Full-on, piercing, misery-every-minute discomfort.
A few days ago, I trekked into the stand of trees behind our house. I putzed in the underbrush, pulling vines and assorted plants that, without cause, had offended my sense of order. I then hauled the harvest to the yard-waste bin.
Hours later, a bump appeared on my left wrist. A bug bite, I thought.
It grew wider and redder each day.
Then came more: near my left knee. On my right leg near the ankle. At my waist.
Note: Poison ivy rash at the very spot crossed by your jockey briefs’ elastic is as painful as diagraming sentences.
Today, the knee and wrist splotches are oozing pus.
I’m sorry for that last paragraph. Consider it a public service. Y’all must be warned.
Poison ivy – the plant may have been poison sumac – is misery.
Misery in green.
Jeff Gauger is a former executive editor of The Shreveport Times who now teaches journalism at Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. Send comments, anecdotes, suggestions and brickbats to jeff.gaugerOB@ gmail.com.
THIS ARTICLE WAS PUBLISHED IN THE July 3 ISSUE OF FOCUS SB - THE INQUISITOR.