The Origins of Studio E, part 2

…and then…

NOT ALL IGNORANCE IS BLISS, cont.

This being high summer, it was hot, and other than my gloves and shoes, I wore only a tank top and shorts.  I worked for several hours, yanking down the smaller vines, using the chainsaw or machete on the ones the size of my wrist, piling everything up behind me for later disposal in the woods.  Some of the vines were sticky or sappy.  There were smears in my hair and across my arms and legs.  There was sawdust in my tank top and socks.  When the shed at last emerged and I felt satisfied with my day’s work, I went to “set a spell” with my elderly neighbor Ms. Dora.  Ms. Dora had watched my progress with more than her usual bright-eyed interest.  She seemed quite taken with my ambition.  She was impressed by my vigorous and fearless attack on “the poison.”  I left to take my shower, not quite sure of her meaning, but more than a little pleased with myself.

In my own defense, let me say that I am from New England.  In Massachusetts, poison ivy is a small ground plant.  It is not something that grows to the height and diameter of a tree.  I was unaware that it could.  Even had I known, I wasn’t allergic–I thought–that was my brother.  And so, maybe it was karma (so many years of making fun of my brother), or perhaps it was my stubborn Yankee nature.  Either way, not many days had passed before I considered buying stock in the company that makes calamine lotion.  Not many more hours had passed before I realized I was beyond its power to soothe.  I wouldn’t wish such a case on anyone, not even my brother.  The sawdust and sap had reached every inch of skin on my body, even under my hair.  I had poison ivy between my toes.  My fingers looked like strange new gloves.

A desperate call to my doctor along with a description of how I felt and looked—there were more attractive specimens in leper colonies–resulted in the appropriate prescriptions.  For several days I surfaced only long enough to take another dose of the steroids and extra-strength anti-histamines that would knock me back out and keep me from tearing off my own skin.  It was several weeks before I was seen in public.  Ms. Dora, usually hawk-eyed and garrulous about my activities, had the kindness never to mention my lack of precaution.

Five months after the bout with the poison that nearly hospitalized me, I still carried scars.  I was very aware that poison ivy of the Mason-Dixon variety could masquerade as a sort of virulent climbing tree, engulfing entire buildings and swallowing fence lines whole.  I, however, was not to be bested by a plant.  Once recovered, my mettle having been tested, I sallied forth to engage the enemy, determined to reclaim my lands.  I hacked, I sliced, I hewed in twain—every inch of skin covered, of course—I could have safely walked the streets of Saudi Arabia without giving offense.  I sprayed the most vicious and corrosive herbicides legally obtainable, and indeed, I began to make some progress, at least within fifteen yards of the house.  Thoughts of the rest of the acreage, also covered with my newfound nemesis, began to unnerve me.

–Goats, suggested my father, they eat poison ivy.  They eat everything.

—Hell no, I thought.

Not so many years before I had been a Peace Corps volunteer on the edge of the Sahara Desert.  The Sahara Desert is growing.  One of the reasons the Sahara desert is growing?  Goats.  Goats, I felt, should be eradicated as a species.  Well…maybe we could leave a few here and there, they are delicious…but NOT in my backyard!

–But wait, said Dad, what about Angora goats?

–Who? I said.

Angora goats, my father informed me, were where mohair came from.  He knew that I had become a handspinner a few years earlier.  Mohair is a lovely fiber to work with.  It produces a soft, lustrous yarn with a beautiful drape, and it takes dye well.  At the time I was buying my fleece.  With Angora goats I could keep myself well supplied with material and take my war to the enemy’s camp.  I’d planned on livestock anyway, why not goats?  The idea began to grow on me.

–What if I buy them for you, asked Dad.

Sold to the man with the Massachusetts accent he will never admit to having.

A year later the garden had indeed expanded and preserves had been made.  The shed remained clear and neat fencerows were up.  Behind them are the tossing heads, pricking ears, and twitching tails, only, these heads have horns, these ears are floppy, and these tails stand straight up.  Goats eat poison ivy.