Sounds deep! What, or whom, I’m asking the question of, is Poison Ivy.
I was out this AM, armed cap-a-pie, pulling a small colony of the handsome, vigorous stuff that was bent on settling in along a verge of the old veg garden. Had on me blue Wellies with jeans stuffed well inside, to guard me feet and legs. Had on a long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs tucked into elastic-wristed work gloves, and the front buttoned, and was worried about the gaps below the cuff buttons. I taped together a makeshift gathering “tarp” out of sheets of newspaper which I laid in the small wheelbarrow, and approached the lair of the Poisonous Ones with a level of caution befitting Perseus sneaking up on Medusa. About 6 of the small plants, not yet well established, lurked modestly in the weeds by the shrubs along the property line between our place and our neighbor’s (much neater!) yard, twined in with a couple of other wildlings and enjoying the semi-shade. They pulled out easily, I’m deeply grateful to say. Gingerly I cut the vines into manageable lengths, wrapped them in their newspaper cocoon and stashed them IN a paper grocery bag, IN the trashcan.
Then I washed: arms, face, neck, hands, shoulders, chest, back of neck, boots, tools, edges of wheelbarrow. A lotta paranoia for a half dozen little children of the earth. But I am a sad, sad martyr to rashes, especially when life is consistently stressful , which it will be until I get some kind of regular job, dammit!
So it’s all George Bush’s and Lehman Bros’ faults, with a sizeable admixture of misguided Obamacentrism.
This morning’s foray is the merest prelim compared to what has to be done in a couple of other places. Our revered late dad was immune to Toxicodendron radicans, and this yard and garden was his domain. Little did I grasp how much pulling and weeding he did, along with his upclose&personal relationship with the lawn!