“That Is Something That Is Best Left Behind”
It was late in the “dog days of summer”. The days were hot and humid. Sultry. Sticky. The air was heavy and oppressive. Rain was scare. Any breeze that blew was welcome, even if it only stirred the heat around. At least, it did cool down a few degrees at night, allowing for some good sleeping conditions, as long as the windows in the house were kept open as wide as possible. As a child of eight, going on nine I stayed outside, in the shade as much as possible. Mostly, I was barefooted, shirtless, with pairs of cutoff blue-jean shorts on. The cutoff shorts were the results of where my mother had cut the legs off of the blue jeans I had worn to school the previous school year, and that would be too small and worn for the upcoming school year. My parents only bought new jeans for me to wear at the beginning of a new school year that had to last the entire school year. Naturally, at the beginning, the blue jeans were a bit large, but by the end of the year they fit just fine as I had grown into them. Thankfully, there were a few days left in the vacation before school took back up. If I remember correctly I was going to be in the third grade.
Just up the rocky road above our house were some apple trees. As I remember it, the trees were heavily laden with maturing apples. Of course, there were lots of yellow-jackets buzzing about. I enjoy eating apples. Apples and peaches are my favorite fruits. (I have no use at all for pineapples! Yuck!) Anyway, I ate a few of the apples. It was not long before my stomach began to rumble and roar. And, then… Well, you can figure out what happen next. I did not have time to make it to the house. I did not have any available paper. Therefore, I chose some green leaves for a definite purpose. My assumption was the leaves were apple leaves. After all, the leaves were green, somewhat shaped like the leaves of an apple tree, and were growing (At least I thought they were growing on the apple tree.) on an apple tree. At my early age I did not realize that all green leaves on an apple tree were not apple leaves. It turned out the leaves I chose to use were real shiny and had a “wax-like” sheen to them. They did the job that I needed them to do. How was I supposed to know they came from a vine that was growing, attached to the tree?
Things were fine; at least for a while. My hands started turning red, and were itching. For some reason the inside of my legs began to do the same thing. There were red-streaks running down my legs, well passed my knees. Then my “behind” began to burn like it was on fire. My scratching only made things worse! In utmost panic I ran, screaming loudly, to the house. My mother heard me coming and came out of the house to meet me. In response to her questions I told her what I had done. Immediately, she looked at my hands and legs. Without a moment’s hesitation I dropped my shorts at her suggestion that I do so. Oh yes! Did I ever! I had chosen poison oak/ivy leaves to use in cleaning myself. The misery had just begun! Before too long my backside was covered with blisters and whelps. My legs were engaged with a serious breakout. My hands were coated. Between my fingers and up my forearms were involved. Unfortunately, I had wiped my nose and eyes with my hands. Yes. I was in torment!
My mother bathed me, covered me in the only lotions she had, and made me lie in the bed on my stomach with my behind stuck up in the air. She tied sheets to the posters at the corners of the bed so I was under a canopy, without anything touching me. Because it was hot, really hot, she put a fan at the foot of the bed, blowing air across me. (There was no air-conditioning.) Every few minutes she would come to me, re-coating me with whatever she thought might calm down the itching and burning. I was miserable! You would not believe what it felt like to have to go to the bathroom. My mother had to feed me. I had to drink from a straw. Even at my early age I figured Hell could not be any more awful that what I was going through. It was my fault that I was in this mess.
After about two days of this the family doctor made a house call. He made the situation worse as he gave me a shot in the @#$. In fact, he came back a couple of more times and shot me again. I decided then and there that it must not be a crime to plot and plan revenge against a doctor that would do something like that to me. However, I will admit that the ointment he instructed my mother to use on me did bring some much needed relief. Finally, after about five or six days, things began to get better. Needless to say, I learned there are some things that are better left behind.