In nineteen-ninety, my husband and I were living in the foothills of south, central Maine and being somewhat discontented with our current living arrangements we'd decided to build a log home and we began searching for an ideal spot on which to build. Over the course of the next six months, we looked at every available piece of land in Androscoggin County and we saw more mosquito filled bogs and swamps than we ever believed possible.
Finally, on a frigid morning when the temperature hovered at minus twenty degrees, or three clapboards below zero as they say in "Tha County," we found the land that we had been looking for. It comprised two acres that overlooked Shawnee Peak to the southwest, Mount Washington to the west and Streaked Mountain in the north. We could see down the mountain valley range nearly to Rumford in the northeast. It was perfect!
We signed a contract with Moose Creek Log Homes and they began building the two story structure the first week in April. In three and a half weeks, our log home was as finished as we wanted. We planned to finish the interior ourselves and we moved in.
I have always been an avid gardener and I set about landscaping in earnest. I used to joke that all my plants had "wheels" because they could often be found occupying one spot today and an entirely different one tomorrow. I begged, borrowed or dug-up every kind of flora and fauna I could find for miles around. I became fascinated with gardening books, seed catalogues and every publication pertaining to gardening that I could find.
Not long after moving in, I discovered a large patch of wild roses growing across the field from our home. Bright and early one morning, I grabbed my spade and wheelbarrow and hurried across the field to where the roses grew in profusion along the edge of the Brighton Hill Road. I was oblivious to everything except the flowers. I filled the wheelbarrow to overflowing and happily pushed the heavy contraption across the road and up through the over grown field to our home.
It was the kind of day that etches itself in your memory for years to come. The sky was a sparkling blue and the field was alive with the sounds of bees as they flew from flower to flower collecting honey and pollen. A gentle breeze cooled my sweaty brow as I triumphantly eased the overloaded wheelbarrow down on the lawn and sat down to rest. I wiped my arm across my hot, sweaty face and commenced replanting my sweet smelling treasure around a huge rock which sat at the end of our drive.
I spent the better part of the day outside watering, planting and just admiring my newfound treasure. More than once, I noticed that I had long scratches and red marks on any part of my body that wasn't covered by clothes. "Oh well," I said to myself. "That's what happens when you're a gardener!" And I happily continued planting.
I was still outside when my husband came home that evening. I proudly showed him all the work I'd done. Being thrifty, "a euphemism for cheap," by nature, my husband was relieved that these treasure hadn't cost him any money. After much admiring of my work, he turned to me and commented that my face seemed a little red and swollen to him. I touched my itchy, burning skin and replied that it must be too much sun. After all, I'd been outdoors all day long, about eleven hours.
After a long hot bath, I slathered my tired body with lotion and went to bed. About midnight I was awakened by a terrible burning/itching sensation all over my body. I staggered to the bathroom and as my eyes adjusted to the light, I didn't recognize myself! The skin on my face was bright, red and my eyes were swollen to slits!
I let out a loud wail and my sleeping husband assumed a sitting position in our bed. "What's the matter?" he asked. I hurried over to where he lay and turned on the light. He took a long look at me and sank back into his warm nest. "Sure looks like poison ivy to me." He replied. "Well," I pleaded, "What do I do about it?" "Not too much you can do, it'll go away," he mumbled. "Well, how long will that be?" I demanded. "By the looks of you, it'll take quite a while," he replied and he drifted off to sleep.
When morning finally rolled around, I was someone neither of us recognized. I was a mess and that's putting it mildly. All of my body was red and swollen and I had developed huge blisters everywhere. I couldn't understand where I'd gotten into poison ivy. "Are you sure it's poison ivy?" I asked my husband. "It could be poison oak or poison sumac too." He replied never taking his eyes of the television.
I couldn't believe it! I'd grown-up playing in the woods of Aroostook County and never once had I contracted poison ivy or any thing like this. I got out my medical book and looked-up all the poisonous plants indigenous to Maine and there it was in alright, in living color! "So that's what that green trailing vine was that was intermingled with my wild roses." I said to myself. "No wonder nobody ever dug those bushes up!"
Poison ivy and I became best friends. Thus began the saga of three months of hell! During one of my many trips to the emergency room, I overheard one of the doctors discussing my case with a couple of nurses. "Poor woman, never in all my years of practice have I seen such a severe case of poison ivy," He commented.
My horrific condition didn't elicit much sympathy from the nurses though. I was sitting on the edge of the bed in the examining room on about my seventh visit when I overheard one nurse say to another, "You'd think by now that she'd have a clue what poison ivy looks like, wouldn't you?"
After contracting poison ivy for the third time that summer, I finally decided that the roses which were growing in such profusion around our rock, really weren't that beautiful after all. "And they weren't all that cheap either!" my husband muttered as he opened another hospital bill.
Martha Stevens-David 2002
Martha Stevens-David Column Magic City
Email: lmdmsd@megalink.net
Childrens Stories include:
See also Vengeance is Mine a short mystery novel published at Magic City over 4 days.
