And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for meat. Genesis 1:29
My recent war on the rats has subsided with them either moving on or planning a different stratagem. But nature, always waiting for a garden to be unguarded, taught me a lesson. A lesson I paid for dearly these last four weeks.
Eden is guarded by cherubim with flaming swords and no man can go back since Adam and Eve totally blew it with the Lord (selfish a-holes). So whatever seems like “Eden” isn’t and you’ll get yours, bub, in time.
One of my favorite Star Trek episodes is, “The Way to Eden.” That is the one where space hippies take over Enterprise after some cool jam sessions with Spock pad out the lame romance between Chekov and a former girlfriend (now hippie). The episode starred the square jawed Charles Napier who wrote the hippie songs and performed them with another guest star. (You may remember Napier as the leader of the Good ‘Ole Boys country band who chased the Blues Brothers around in a Winnebago) The hippies seek a mythical planet called Eden and demand Captain Kirk take them there. Their leader, the Svengali-like college professor, Dr. Sevrin, an insane megalomaniac, orders them to take control of Enterprise, which they do (in a stupid way) and quickly warp to the planet to find…
…Planet Eden is all poison. We know this when Chekov screams after touching a rose (Chekov is the pain-barometer of the show). Of course, Adam, Napier’s character, is already dead from eating poison fruit. You see, the evil Svengali will lead you to an “Eden” that is not an Eden. A typical cornball, Roddenberry caution-tale that aired in March, 1969. Five months later it didn’t seem so cornball when a grimy Svengali in California commanded his young hippies to murder two families.
So there ain’t no Edens, man. There is only nature, and nature does what it must despite the dominion God granted me.
Nature got me. Got me good. While in an important meeting at work, I started feeling a bit itchy behind my knees. Later, a rash showed up. Slowly at first. Then faster. Looking for the cause, I blamed the dog, who recently had a bout of ring-worm. Not the dog. Food? Soap? Nope. And then I remembered an odd looking plant I pulled the week before and another one like it still growing in a planter outside. Not a bad looking plant for being POISON. Poison sumac. Yep, here in Houston it grows.
And the rash got worse, moving up my arm, down my legs and chest. I only remember pulling that sumac up with one hand. How could it get so bad? That same day, I had also crawled behind the blueberries to pull weeds. I failed to notice the viney plant growing through one scorched blueberry. Poison Ivy. Oh, yeah: TWO poison plants in the yard!
I am no flat-lander. I spent a large part of my youth in the deserts and mountains of the Southwest hunting, hiking and backpacking. I know poison oak well. But I never reacted to it. I reckon my number was up.
The teenage sons who live in my house, eat my food and make demands of me did not recognize it even though one is an Eagle Scout and the other a Star Scout. Their excuse was that they didn’t think such things grew in people’s YARDS. Knuckle heads. But I get it. I am always on the lookout for these nasty things but only in the woods.
I let my guard down. I got cocky. I lost awareness of my surroundings, just like those poor, but deserving, rats that that die in the traps of Darth Victorus. I deserved what I got.
Now you may have been itchy in your life: a leg cast, a fly bite, ring worm, etc. But there is no itch like the urushiol itch (the allergenic resin). This is torch to flesh itch. This is Paul’s hand in the Bene Geserit box itch. This is drive-into-a-bridge-abutment itch. I would have bathed in any hideous concoction, endured any cold, smeared on any foul, effeminate cream for relief.
Forget sleep. Sleep was a lost toy under the couch gathering lint from afghans long unraveled. Sheets turned into 180 grit sandpaper and my clothes became ribbons of emery cloth from a Taft welding truck with the driver, a guy named Earl, sawing them to and fro as I walked.
My only relief was jumping in the pool a few times a day. But I had to shower quick or the salt would bring on the itch. A cold shower, mind you.
I am thankful for the experience. I was getting too comfortable, all rashless and rested. But now I am delayed in my fall planting.
Nature cares only to fill every void with as much life as can fit, dry or moist, dark or light. She loves every space, every canyon and abyssal plain. She loves all the earth and forsakes no land or water.
Within my domain, I will plant again, sweat, fight rats and weeds, and fret over sun and frost. God said:
Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field; In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.
BRING IT ON!
Oh no! Only someone who has suffered through that can truly understand your misery. I’ve been there, man. Get thee to a doctor for steroids!