Whacking weeds turns out to be a rash move

The Free Lance Star
Rob Hedelt
May 20, 2007

Wading into some problems, and vines, is something you do only once

EVER HAVE those moments where you wade into a mess and suddenly realize there's no getting out without a cost?

That happened to me last weekend and I, quite literally, have been paying a price ever since.

The problem that has been itching away at me since last Friday isn't something that involves morals or right and wrong.

It grew out of cutting the grass.

That's what I was ankle-deep in on Friday evening, getting the yard spiffed up for company.

After mowing, I decided to pull out my trusty weed-whacker to neaten up edges around trees and bushes.

As anyone who has weed-whacked knows, a little edging here can turn into a lot more trimming there.

Which is exactly how I came to be staring at a thriving patch of weeds and vines where mulch had once held sway.

No problem, I thought to myself, a tad under the influence of the weed-whacker's impressive power.

The warm sun shone down on my bare arms and legs as I charged into the mass of weeds, marveling at the way the spinning segment of plastic line chopped into the overgrown strip of green.

I barely noticed the way the spinning line almost liquefied the weeds, splattering residue on my ankles, shins, arms and neck.

It was only when I stopped to wipe off my protective glasses that I took a closer look at the weeds I had been whacking.

Uh, oh. Leaves with three points, that's not good. Jagged edges. Leaves of three, let it be.

Oh, my stars, I thought, it was poison ivy I'd been pureeing, coating my exposed skin with its nefarious sap.

At that point, covered in green splatter, I decided to shut down the trimming operation and get inside as quickly as possible, to wipe that potentially problematic green goo off me with every sort of unguent we owned.

The next morning, when no horrible red rash materialized, I was pompous enough to think I'd dodged a bullet.

"Hah! I'm either immune or was lucky enough to avoid any real poison ivy out there," I said to no one in particular.

Oh, how foolish.

By Monday, thick, red rashes had broken out in more places on me than a leopard has spots.

Soon enough, I was scratching and digging at bumps from stem to stern, cursing the decision to wade into those vines gone wild.

All week, I've used keys, rulers and even a rolled-up magazine to scratch my way to minor relief.

Sandpaper and even a wood chisel were briefly considered.

But as I write this, the scourge seems finally on the wane.

The whole incident has given me enough displeasure to serve as a great reminder of the need for caution when weed-whacking.

This weekend, I'll be using every poison-ivy-eradication spray on the market to seek out the offending vines.

Applied, of course, while wearing enough layers of protective clothing to withstand a nuclear detonation--or at least that patch of poison ivy in my backyard.

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