I’m usually a sound sleeper, hardly ever waking up too early. But last night, I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. I couldn’t sleep because my right hand, between the index finger and the next, was awash with poison ivy symptoms. If I could have ripped off the hand, I’m sure I would have. The more I scratched, the more it itched, and so the vicious cycle went.
The worst part is that I know exactly when I contracted the poison ivy thing. I even looked the plant in the eye as I was pulling the nearby weed from the front bed and dared it to invade. I took great care not to touch it, but apparently it doesn’t really matter. I guess they just spit at you, evil little things that they are. As I lay awake, I berated myself for not making the trip to the store to pick up poison ivy itch cream, as I had seen this coming on. But miracle of miracles, this morning as I rummaged hopefully through the bathroom drawer, there it was. Extra Strength Double Relief Poison Ivy Itch Cream. Pink and crusty and probably expired by a few years, but no matter. That’s the closest I think I’ve ever come to being a drug addict. No matter the cost, no matter the quality, I NEEDED it.
Much earlier this year, I noticed those nasty little poison ivy vines emerging and I should have sprayed them then. But that would have meant a trip to Lowe’s which I really hate to do, so I vowed to simply avoid them. A master gardener would have made quick work of them, no doubt, but that’s not who I am.
I do, though, have great appreciation for those who devote so much time to the art of gardening. In fact, last week, my daughter’s fiancé’s mom and I meandered through the Huntsville Botanical Garden, for no reason other than that we both needed to get out, and we share an interest in enjoying plants, even if not nurturing them well. She plans to relandscape her garden beds and I just like to dream. We also take great delight in the discomfort our friendship gives our altar-bound children. The damage we could do…
At any rate, we found ourselves wandering around a collection of themed herb beds, cared for by the Herb Society. One of the herb ladies emerged from the Victorian potting shed, clomping toward us in high black rubber boots. The wide-brimmed straw hat shaded her face which was protected by a plexiglass shield, and she smartly wore gloves, no doubt to ward off any stray poison ivy intrusion. The shield was intended to ward off the Covid virus, I guess. It turned out that she was responsible for the Bible-themed garden and was eager to show it off. The Balm of Gilead shared space with Coriander, behind which grew a Crown of Thorns plant, which she admitted most likely wasn’t used for the crown of thorns but made the point well. No pun intended. I wondered about the Cedars of Lebanon, but I guess they would take up too much room in a raised bed. Other areas contained plants for medicinal purposes, or for tea, or even those mentioned in Shakespeare plays, like rosemary for remembrance and pansies for thoughts.
We asked about how the plants in the Botanical Gardens were managed and she explained that in the beginning there were several plant societies involved, all offshoots of the Garden Guild. The Herb Society had its space, as did the Rose Society, the Hosta Society, the Camellias, and the Daylilies. When an Eagle Scout put in the miniature train village, the Bonsai Society got involved, and so it all grew into the fantastic place it is now.
But the society with the greatest longevity is the Herb Society, barely edging out the Daylilies. With just a hint of satisfaction in her voice, our Bible garden guide pointed to the barren hillside where the Rose Society had met its demise.
“After the plague hit the roses, they had to drop out. That’s all that’s left of the rose garden. Sad.”
We rounded the corner to find the Daylily Society hard at work in the open field in the blazing sunshine. It was apparently time to cut back the foliage, backbreaking clipper work that it was. Under the single shade of a pagoda rested one of the only male gardeners we had seen, fanning his flushed face with a paper fan. He was happy though, clearly energized by the daylily care.
“You should join us!” he guffawed. “It’ll turn your hair white!”
No, thanks. We headed for the Shade Garden instead.
But if there’s ever a call for an Ivy Society, I’m pretty sure I’m qualified. I can grow that well. And it requires nothing at all.
