Back in 1624, John Smith wowed the Old World with his five-volume Generall Historie of the New World. He hit all the major points—geography, native peoples, settlers, religion, customs, etc. But nothing was too small to escape his voracious eye. Especially if he thought it might interest his readers, who were apparently big on bodily functions.
How else do you explain his fascination with the “purging Beane” of the Summer Isles, which, when eaten, “worketh excellently in the nature of a purge, and though very vehemently, yet without all perill.” Or the so-called “red weed,” which, in the hands of a master chef, could “procure a very forcible vomit, and yet is generally used by the people…against the paines and distempers of the stomake.”
If the promise of free and abundant purgatives weren’t enough of an enticement, you might just pile the kids into the tall ship and cross the raging Atlantic for a glimpse of some of the more exotic New World critters. The “Musketas,” for instance. Or if you were really lucky, “a certaine India Bug, called by the Spaniards a Cacarootch, the which creeping into Chests they eat and defile with their ill-scented dung.”
Mosquitoes. Cockroaches. Dung, ill-scented or…otherwise? Ah. The pleasures of the Colonies.
Of course, it wouldn’t be the New World without a certain vine with three shiny leaves. “The poysoned weed is much in shape like our English Ivy, but being but touched, causeth rednesse, itchyng, and lastly blisters.”
We natives call it “poison ivy.”
Not a whole lot has changed in the last four centuries. At least, not when it comes to this evil offspring of the cashew family. I like cashews. I wouldn’t mind an annual explosion of cashew vines all over our hills and hedges. Instead, we’ve got a plant so nasty that the word poison is built right into its Latin name, Toxicondendron radicans.
I’m fairly useless when it comes to identifying plants. Happily, my wife isn’t. Often, the conversation on one of our long rambles up at the Creek goes like this:
Me: “Is that it?”
Her: “No. That’s Virginia creeper.”
Me: “What about that?”
Her: “That has four leaves, not three.”
Me: “Ooh. Over there!”
Her: “Yep.”
Me: “And that?”
Her: “Uh huh.”
Me: “That, too?”
Her: “Oh, yeah.”
Me: “And—”
Her (exasperated): “Yes, it’s ALL poison ivy.”
I’ve learned a few rhymes to help me spot it. “Leaves of three, let it be.” “Hairy vine, no friend of mine. “Berries white, run in fright.” And my personal favorite, “Side leaflets like mittens, will itch like the dickens.”
A list of greatest hits if I ever saw one.
Here’s how poison ivy works. The plant’s roots, stems, and leaves are full of a horrible death gel called “urushiol oil,” which comes from the Japanese word for “lacquer.” As in, “The only thing that’s going to keep you from tearing the agonizingly itchy flesh off your body is if you dip yourself repeatedly in LACQUER.” Urushiol oil is so potent that an ounce or two of it could cause a rash on every person on the planet.
Which would make it about as potent as a Justin Timberlake album.
The oil works by fooling the body’s immune system into attacking itself. In other words, your own T-cells, too stupid or drunk to know the difference between a skin cell and, uh, an identical skin cell with a bit of urushiol oil molecule attached to it, go nuts and attack perfectly healthy tissue. Take a look at the “Skin Rash Hall of Fame” on www.poison-ivy.org if you want to lose your appetite.
Good luck trying to eradicate poison ivy. We’ve sprayed ours with enough Roundup to defoliate the Mekong Delta, and this year, there’s more of it than ever.
You can’t burn it, since the airborne oil can get in your lungs and kill you. If you mow it, hit it with a weed-whacker, or pull the vines off your trees, you might as well be lathering up with itching powder.
And don’t even think about eating it. I found that warning on several websites. Which tells me that someone has actually tried this, with predictable results. As in, slow, agonizing death.
There is one product that offers at least some protection, a special soap called Tecnu. Utility linesmen and lumberjacks swear by Tecnu. I like it, too. Then again, I think I’d like any product that was developed during the Cold War as a countermeasure for radioactive fallout.
They say that about eighty percent of the population is allergic to poison ivy. I’m in that eighty percent.
I happen to know a few people in the other twenty percent who love to brag about their immunity. “Oh, I never get poison ivy,” they’ll say. Or, “Gosh, that really looks like it itches!”
Poison ivy doesn’t bother them. But a whole mess of cacarootches just might…
This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 11 June 2009
For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com
