When I arrived home yesterday I encountered a recumbent tree blocking the driveway with the resident woodsman standing nearby holding a chainsaw. I wanted to run over and give him a big hug, but instead I said, "Don't touch anything until you've had a shower!" The tree, you see, was infested with poison ivy.
I don't know what kind of tree it was because I never noticed leaves on it other than the poison ivy that spread through the canopy. Snaking up the trunk was a poison ivy vine as thick as my arm, and the vine spread far enough to produce luxuriant green growth in the summer; it was only when you looked closely that you noticed what kind of leaves they were.
Our first year here, my woodsman severed the poison ivy vine and sprayed it with poison ivy killer, but it took a while before it all died off--and only then could we see just how dead the tree really was. It was close to the house so it had to come down, but who wants to mess with a poison ivy tree?
For such a time as this I keep a skilled woodsman around the house. He cut down the tree and started chopping it up, although we don't plan to burn any of it in the fireplace this winter for fear of inhaling poison ivy fumes. That's one more pest out of my life--and one terrific woodsman worthy of a hug.
But only after a shower.
No comments:
Post a Comment