The Itch

I’m not a big fan of itching. I don’t know anyone who is.

I’ve always wanted to take a trip through the wilderness. One of my favorite authors is Louis L’Amour. My favorite book of all time is Jubal. I’ve only read it three or four times, but every time I have, I get a hankering for the old-time ways.

Cooking fresh venison at the end of a long day, letting the coffee perk over some hot coals, cutting fresh deer meat into long strips, and letting it dry out in the smoke of a dwindling campfire. Those are times that made real men.

These men weren’t wearing Louis Vuitton. They weren’t getting manicures. No offense to men who do these things, but men were of a different caliber back then.

Do I want my arms almost ripped off while chasing down a herd of angry buffalo? No.

I don’t even know how such a thing could happen. I’m sure it’s possible, but it would have to be extreme circumstances.

Do I want to wish away the modern convenience of the air conditioner? No. I love staying cool.

But there’s just something about knowing how to do the things those men did. There’s something about chasing down, killing, and skinning a buffalo to provide for your family and keep them warm. Something is awe-inspiring about the bygone eras, where hunters respect the animals they hunt, are thankful for them, and take care of them throughout the year leading up to the hunting season.

So although I’d like to be in that category of hunter-gatherer, I can’t be.

I’m highly allergic to poison ivy.

I was eight years old when it happened. Up to that point, I had somehow avoided it. But that summer, I was stricken with a horrible case of poison ivy. At that point in my life, I decided I would NEVER enter woods or brushy areas during summer again.

And I haven’t. I avoid it at all costs.

Eight-year-old me was traumatized. My entire left arm was covered in poison ivy. Then it started oozing, and my poison ivy got poison ivy. I was a multilayered rash on my arm. It was on my face. I still have scars on my legs from where I scratched whatever itched. My parents took me to the doctor, and the doc prescribed an ointment that had to be mixed with water.

Water. I had avoided water like the plague. I didn’t wash my left arm for two weeks. We went to the lake, and I stayed in the boat. And this new solution to my problem had to be mixed with water. I didn’t believe it would help. But I was sick of the poor excuse for a cure called calamine lotion.

It worked. Within the week, my left arm healed!

I kept my vow to never enter the woods during summer. And I kept a sharp eye out for the three-leafed wonder — poison ivy. I could be in the middle of Walmart, and if I saw something remotely similar to the plant in the garden center, I’d exit the premises. I took NO chances.

Fast forward twenty years, and I was getting married. It was January 23, 2017. Less than two weeks until our wedding.

The fiancé wanted real trees at the wedding. So I ventured out into a field and cut down four cedar trees and six other trees of unknown origin. I speculate that they were dormant poison ivy trees. And they were angry at me for cutting them down.

Once again, I was gifted an awful case of poison ivy. It was covering my face, fingers, chest, and legs. It also covered other areas I’ll not mention. Not a good look for the honeymoon.

My future brother-in-law (or sister-in-law, not sure who it was) got me an appointment with their family doctor. He took one look at me and called the nurse in.

“Yeah, we’re gonna need that so-and-so medicine.” He stated matter-of-factly.

“Okay, doc.”

Twenty conversations about nothing in particular and a few awkward minutes of silence later, she came in with the paraphernalia.

Gulp.

“Uh, Doc, is that a gargantuan needle used primarily on pre-historic dinosaurs?”

“Yep.”

“Don’t you have some type of powder that I can mix with water, please?”

“Nope. That’s an outdated method. This works much quicker.”

“I have a feeling that’s gonna leave a big hole in my arm.”

“These shots don’t go in the arm.”

“Dear God…”

I was too shocked to get up like a sane person and run, kicking and screaming, through the waiting room and out the front door.

He commences putting the PVC pipe needle into the jar of so-and-so medicine and fills up the gruesome syringe.

“All right, son. Stand up and turn around.”

I’ll spare you the details. It was not pleasant. It was painful. But the poison ivy cleared up by the wedding day.

There aren’t many things that will get me back out into the woods these days. I’ll go deer hunting as long as there isn’t any green foliage lurking about.

I’d go out into the woods during the summer if we had an apocalypse of some sort. I can’t believe that much else would cause me to do such a thing.

If we have a daughter who wants a wedding inside a building with a platform full of trees, she’ll have to cut the conifers herself.

to those susceptible to epidermal hypersensitivity,
– Caleb