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David Spates Even a muskrat learns EVENTUALLY It would seem that I don't effectively embrace
the notion of natural selection. It's nothing against Mr. Darwin
and his The Origin of Species. I think it's simply a matter of
me being too dimwitted to play along with the concept of "survival
of the fittest." You see, I've got a bad case of poison ivy
-- again. Poison ivy has a wonderful defense mechanism in that
it inflicts a terrible, itchy rash upon any animal too stupid
to avoid it. The resin it secretes acts as a deterrent to an
animal that might want to it eat it, or in my case, yank it from
the juniper bushes. However, a deterrent works only if the animal,
be it muskrat or thick-headed gardener, is able to recognize
the plant as a threat. Without the ability to identify a threat,
the deterrent doesn't work. The plant dies, and the thickheaded
gardener is left scratching his arm for a week. I suspect that the wily muskrat suffers from
poison ivy once in its lifetime. I, on the other hand, am struck
with poison ivy every couple of years or so, which leaves me
wondering how in the world can a rodent be more observant than
I. My relationship with poison ivy goes back
for decades. I had always been susceptible to it, but there was
once instance in particular that should have shell-shocked me
into a constant state of alert when it comes to that loathsome
three-leafed plant. I was 10 years old when I spent the night
at Brad Reddick's house. The Reddicks had a large backyard which
they spent a considerable amount of time maintaining. Brad and
I were gathering loads of brush and branches into a pile for
what would be a glorious bonfire in the evening. Like most boys
at that age, we weren't interested in clearing away yard debris
nearly as much as we wanted to be part of a really big fire.
For a 10-year-old, a stack of underbrush soaked with gasoline
is a fine way to spend a Saturday night. So there we were carrying armloads of whatever
Brad's parents pointed to, and at the end of the day we had one
dandy prospective bonfire. All we needed now was an accelerant
and an adult to set our pile ablaze. After Mr. Reddick applied
an ample amount of gasoline, he carefully tossed a lighted match
onto our handiwork. It was a thing of beauty. I, Brad and a few
other chums stood in silence as the pile hissed and crackled
for hours, sending wave after wave of smoke over us. We were
still a little young to be concerned too much with girls, or
at least we were too young to do anything about it, so watching
a fire burn was about as exciting as it got for a pack of 10-year-old
boys. Our pyromaniacal urges satisfied for the time
being, we went to sleep. I woke up at the Reddicks' house Sunday
morning feeling fine. Brad and I had stayed up until all hours
watching a "Saturday Night Live" rerun, playing "Castle
Quest" on the Atari and bemoaning the fact that we had to
go back to school Monday morning. As it turned out, neither one of us made it
to class Monday. I awoke Monday morning looking like what my
mother refers to this day refers to as "the elephant man."
As you have no doubt guessed by now, the brush we were hauling
for the bonfire contained loads of poison ivy, and my arms, neck
and face had exploded into a festering rash the likes of which
one normally doesn't see outside a leper colony. The plant had
worked its magic, and the muskrat was looking at me though a
window, shaking his head and wondering how a species with members
as dumb as I could possibly dominate the Earth. And like Captain Ahab spitting his last breath
at thee, the poison ivy inflicted a dying jab as its leaves were
burning. The smoke from the bonfire had wafted into my eyes,
causing them to puff up to the point that I couldn't see a thing
Monday morning. To make a long story short (too late!), I
missed an entire week of school, endured days of the most maddening
full-body itch you can imagine, and even had to go to the doctor
for steroid shots. By the way, when I went to the doctor, I looked
so hideous that the nurse actually uttered an audible gasp when
she saw me. Anything that can make a nurse cringe must be pretty
bad. Now wouldn't you think that someone who went
through all of that would be a little more cautious before blindly
pulling three-leafed weeds from the juniper? I would think so,
too. And yet here I sit with my left forearm looking like a slaughterhouse
floor. They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but I suspect even the old dog has sense enough to stay away from poison ivy when he sees it. I wonder if Darwin accounted for the "moronic gardener who can't learn a lesson" factor when he developed his theory. · · · |