Five years ago I was digging and planting. We were in our new house with new challenges, but I took to the gardening chores with the same gusto as I had in our earlier home. Of course, the significant increase in acreage, not to mention the fact that the builder has barely conditioned the yard, made it a significantly more challenging task.

And it still is, though I’ve learned a bit about the battle with the yard over the last few years.

Anyway, five years ago I encountered a strain of poison ivy or one of its relatives that climbed a couple of trees near the road. As someone who gets really bad poison ivy whenever I come anywhere near the vile stuff, you’d think I would have been able to avoid it. No such luck.

Now I shouldn’t complain. Poison Ivy is one of the few things I can say I am truly allergic to. I know other people who have terrible hay fever and seasonal allergies. I know people who are terrified of dust mites and require specialized allergy bedding. I don’t even want to contemplate the medications and shots some sufferers must endure.

So I try not to complain much when I get a good solid bout of poison ivy. But man, it is a miserable thing. And five years ago was no exception. I had that ugly, itchy rash all over the place, but it was centralized on my calves. I’ve seen photos of people with advanced leprosy that was far more palatable than this. Forget about flu shots and all that, somebody give me an itch vaccine. I’ll be all over that bad boy.