There’s a saying in North America for poison ivy: “Leaves of three, leave it be.” Poison ivy, as the picture shows, has the infamous three leaves on a stem. Many people (but not everyone) are allergic to the oils the leaves produce. Unlucky wayfarers come across the ivy usually in forests, overlooked fence corners or in neglected flower beds. Rub against the plant’s leaves and the oils will give you a rash, blisters and itchy skin.
Gardeners must cut the ivy carefully, bag it and throw it away. You never burn the ivy–the smoke carries the oils and if you breathe it in, a reaction can happen internally. Clothing and skin must be washed immediately. Then bring on the pink Calamine lotion and prepare for a couple of weeks of healing while dodging inquiring stares. Avoid questions of people asking why exactly you look like a pimply young piglet and smile at the ignorant treating you like a contagious leper.
Continue reading “Poison Ivy & Procrastination: Writing Snares”
I have a hose bin. It’s a quaint, pretty thing. It was a requested birthday gift, three years ago, something to help the Saint and I maintain our yard. Think of a beige plastic box with a feeder reel, a rod, a lid and a hand crank lever. You hook up the hose to the back, hook that up to your water spigot, and bam–you have a stored hose. Roll, unroll and off you go.
I used to think these watering hose bins were classy things. Instead of having hoses laying in driveways baking in the sun, or shaded underneath awnings like an idly waiting Boa Constrictor, hoses could be contained and camouflaged in garden beds. No more tripping, more more lugging, no more unsightliness. No longer do I entertain such foolish notions. This summer, as I stood shaded by my Japanese Elm tree, I went to war with the hose bin yet again. And I wondered exactly, just exactly, how many times a hose can get stuck and refuse to come out!
When the Saint came home from work, I merely pointed to the hose bin. By this time it was knocked over, dragged across the landscaping rocks and pinned between the front porch corner and an unlucky Holly bush. In my hands, I grasped about four feet of green rubber hose–a hard sought victory, a well earned prize.
My patience had disappeared.
Continue reading “Me, The Hose Bin & Writing: The Battle Continues”