Ants, heat, poison ivy

I used to enjoy an afternoon out in the woods – “used to” being the operative phrase here.
As a young girl, I joined my teenage cousin as she laid out tanning. She stood up after two hours with a beautiful tan. I, on the other hand, had burned fiery red. I never gave the sun another chance to roast me.
That does not mean that I stayed inside. I spent hours wandering the woods surrounding our farm and collecting moss species to make a terrarium, and laid out a moss garden by the bubbling, spring-fed brook in the deep woods. My sister and I carried our doll families to the woods and enjoyed long summer afternoons sitting on the ground in the land of imagination.
Then I moved south where teeny fire ants seek out anyone brave enough to stand or sit anywhere near them and, for no obvious reason, pinch their bodies into a fierce inverted V as they zap with their poisonous bite. The first time it happened to me my finger swelled until I could not move it. I stared at it in astonishment. The swelling subsided and left me with a fiery itch. From then on I kept a sharp eye out for fire ant mounds and avoided them. But, I wasn’t anywhere near an ant mound the day the fire ants made their way inside my nylons and nipped me. Who invited them anyway?
One summer and one summer only, I ventured out to pick raspberries. The pies and jam were delicious, the ensuing itchy weeks from the red bug bites were maddening. Forget raspberry picking, my skin is a bug magnet.
I still felt safe taking a stroll through a wooded area in the middle of winter when bugs hibernated and the sun’s rays did not burn. I even felt safe enough to volunteer one winter to help a friend pull dormant poison ivy. I had spent a childhood in the woods with absolutely no sensitivity to the stuff.
Two days later, I was told that I did not so much need a prescription for hives as I did a shot and medicine for contact dermatitis: poison ivy. During that initial spat with poison ivy, we visited a relative who told me to put any towels I touched in the bathroom into the wash machine – the host was highly sensitive to poison ivy.
I washed, tossed and went home insulted and determined to stay away from poison ivy.
And I did. But, after simply brushing hair out of my face as I walked by a wooded area with some ivy, I woke up with inflamed face just before a women’s retreat. Any stray hair that touched my neck tortured me. I pinned my hair up, carried a bottle of Ivy Dry and, with a red, ugly face, went to the retreat anyway.
I took no more casual strolls down memory lane in wooded areas.
My husband tried to help. He worked to eliminate any poison ivy growing up around our place. Last year he spent a long hot day pulling the stuff out by the roots to protect me. He came in, showered and scrubbed anyplace the vines had touched his skin. He did not break out … but I did a couple days after I tossed his clothes into the wash machine.
As I said, I used to enjoy an afternoon out in nature. Now, even being around nature lovers leave me a bit leery.
No more picnics on the ground, quiet, soothing strolls through the woods, resting under a shade tree and reading a favorite book. Between the ants, the heat and the poison ivy, I opt to stay under the fan inside my air conditioned house, stretched out on the couch watching nature shows on television.
(Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times.)


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