COLUMN: The Ivy-Covered Walls of Learning

By Tobin Barnes
Occasionally, justice is served.

I know, because lately I’ve been on the receiving end.

Let me explain my bout of comeuppance duly meted out.

This summer, my wife was plagued with a nasty bit of poison ivy. Actually, I’m sure she’d beg to differ as to the “bit” part because it tended to drive her nuts.

She went through tubes of cortisone cream, rolls of guaze, and many pads of sterile bandages trying to bring the affliction to an end. But seemingly, tamping down one outbreak only led to another. It went on for many weeks.

During this tribulation, my simple solution, “Just don’t scratch it,” was never much appreciated.

But I couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about. The closest I’d ever come to widespread skin irritation was when I used to caddy as a kid.

When walking the boundaries of the course or down by the creek, we often came in contact with something we called “itchweed.” We never knew what this stuff really was—not much into botanical nomenclature at that age.

Mostly, it would get on our legs when we weren’t watching out for the stuff, but sometimes it’d also attack our hands and arms when we’d reach down to pick up a ball out of the deep rough.

But we found that if we didn’t scratch the initial itch, it would soon go away. Lesson learned—anyway, as far as itchweed was concerned.

So, lesson applied to my wife’s case: “Gees, just don’t scratch it.”

It was like, what’s wrong with her? If she’d just leave it alone, it’d go away.
But as I indicated before, this advice quickly threatened to strain our relationship.

Eventually, her outbreak subsided.

Then, Pow!

I get the mother of all poison ivy outbreaks. It’s a case to make hers—in my eyes, anyway—seem a mere dalliance.

It started in a massive swath across my neck and collar bone area. (I’m thinking my dog, Matty, got into the stuff, and after I petted her, I must have rubbed my neck—the inflamed part was in the shape of fingers on a hand.)

After that, it jumped to about fifteen other smaller outbreaks across my upper body. Ah Chihuahua!

I may have spread it by toweling off after showers. Now I just drip dry like a piece of laundry, and that, along with massive doses of cortisone cream and spray seems to be helping somewhat.

I don’t intend to demean other people’s truly grave afflictions and suffering, but this was more hell than I was bargaining for after giving one loved one some good advice and another a few pats on the head.

And though I’ve been referring to this as a poison ivy attack—which is probably the generic cause most people’s minds leap to—maybe it’s poison oak or sumac, instead. Or maybe bitter vetch or angry anise or even p.o.-ed pansy. I just don’t know.

What I do know is that I’ll never belittle another’s suffering again. And I just might not pet my dog again until after we have a heavy freeze and all the plants die for the season.

And there’s a foot of snow on the ground.

And I’m wearing gloves.