A careful farewell

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

Every morning, I walk out the ground floor door and am greeted by a cascading green vine. It is quite lovely. 

Its slender, pointed leaves grow in groups of three from its bright red stem as it falls over the dark stone wall. The contrast is striking. I open the door, look at the vine, and say, "Today is the day I will cut you down," but the day takes me elsewhere, and the vine lives to greet me again.

Cutting it down will not only end its beauty, it will be no easy task. The vine is poison ivy, and I am horribly allergic. I imagine that I will approach it from the top of the wall and carefully reach over with my long-handled loppers. The loppers have an extension in their grips so I can easily reach over four feet. Once cut, the poisonous tendrils will drop down to the cement entrance way below.

I will then walk back down to the ground floor entrance, and there, with my long-handled rake, I will carefully pick up each individual tendril and carry it up into the woods. Our dear dog would no doubt love to assist with this removal process. I can imagine her chasing each vine, grabbing a hold of one end, and then running off as she looks back over her shoulder with that catch-me-if-you-can look in her eyes. She will definitely have to stay inside for this operation.

I don't think I should even allow her to see where I have deposited the vines. It will be best to keep her inside on the ground floor where she'll have no view of the back woods. On more than one occasion I have gotten poison ivy from simply snuggling with her on the couch. I always ask if she has gotten into any poison ivy before we snuggle. She cocks her head to one side, listening intently, and then jumps up beside me. The joys of living with a loving farm dog.

Vines removed from the wall, I will then need to wash off my implements. I'll fill a small trough with soapy water and let my loppers and rake soak for several hours so the ivy oils can be washed away. I'll then rinse my tools off at the spigot and return them to the greenhouse tool rack.

Yes, this will be no easy task, but it is a task that needs to be done. I walked out the ground floor door this morning and marveled at the beauty of the ivy. Its tendrils had almost reached all the way down to the cement pad outside the ground floor door. I paused. Perhaps I could wait just one more day, maybe two. 

"Let them finish their journey down the wall," I said to myself. This I could do, and then would I bid them a careful farewell.