Poison Ivy is God's Message to be More Careful

 I live off a gravel road in the floodplain of the Mississippi River. No levee protects my side of the river in southwest Mississippi, and floodwater inundates my property every spring with melted snow and rainwater from up north. 

When the Mississippi River is at flood stage in Cairo, Illinois, my neighbors tell me, my four-acre yard will be flooded ten days later. So far, my neighbors have been right.

However, my patch of earth was dry last February, and I decided to build a fire in the fireplace to ward off a slight chill rising from Lake Mary. I selected sticks and twigs from the kindling basket on the hearth and constructed a small pyramid of dry wood that became the foundation for a crackling fire of oak and pecan logs.

All went well, and my living room was soon suffused with a warm glow and the pleasant aroma of woodsmoke. Ah, the country life!

Unfortunately, my kindling basket contained a chunk of poison ivy. When I acquired my little corner of southern Mississippi two years ago, many of the trees on my property were strangled by poison ivy vines.  These vines can grow 15 feet high in the alluvial soil and are as thick as my wrist.

I severed these monstrous vines from their roots with my mini chainsaw, and all the poison ivy died. Problem solved, I told myself, and watched the dead vines drop from my trees over the coming months.

On the ground, however, these dead vines look like tree branches. I carelessly sawed them up for kindling along with branches from the oak, hackberry, and pecan trees that populate my woodlot. Then I put these noxious vines in my kindling basket along with the other sticks and twigs.

As I built my fire one winter night, a poison ivy branch brushed my right leg. By the end of the evening, my leg looked like it had sustained a second-degree burn. And my leg itched maddeningly, causing me to involuntarily scratch so hard that I broke the skin, which drew blood and made the poison ivy burn worse.

That was February 1st. The next day, I visited Our Lady of the Lake urgent care center, where an able doctor gave me a steroid shot and prescriptions for an anti-itching pill and a medicated ointment.

My problems are over, I told myself as I drove home. Indeed, the itching subsided, and the medications allowed me to sleep. 

I was wrong. The blistering spread to my left leg, and two months later, my poison ivy burn has yet to completely heal.

God made the world, and I'm ever grateful for the beautiful Lake Mary sunsets and the flocks of waterbirds that gather in the sloughs along Lake Mary Road--the great blue herons, snowy egrets, ibises, and the fantastic pink roseate spoonbills. 

But did God go too far? Did he have to create alligators, moccasin snakes, and poison ivy? If so, why?

As my poison ivy burn gradually fades away, I've concluded that God made poison ivy to remind us to be careful as we make our way through this troubled world.

Evil is everywhere, and the most vicious evils don't come from God. They come from the hearts of men and women driven by the lust for fame, power, and money.

I'm provincial enough to believe that a lot of the evil that plagues America comes from Washington, DC, and the urban lairs of the coastal elites. I'm not so naive as to think I can escape this evil by dwelling on Lake Mary Road in rural Mississippi.

No, evil can reach me anywhere. Thus, God left me a message in the form of poison ivy to watch my step.

Towing Our Lifeless Kubota to High Ground as the Mississippi Floods for the Second Time This Spring

Millions of Americans are worried about the stock market, which tanked last week. People saw their retirement accounts shrink dramatically, which is scary.

However, no one is thinking about the stock market on Lake Mary Road this week. Instead, our minds are focused on a more immediate threat. The Mississippi River is flooding for the second time this spring, and my neighbors are fleeing to high ground. 

Hour after hour, I watched guys in trucker hats driving pickup trucks by my home, towing trailers loaded with household cargo. Nobody wants to be trapped on low ground when the river overflows and covers Lake Mary Road, cutting off our only route to safety.

My family was one of the last to leave. Nevertheless, we knew we had a few hours before the mighty river overflowed into our yard--plenty of time to execute our escape plan.

At first, all went well. Charlie towed our party barge to the parking lot at the Lake Mary Store, where it would be safe. Then we loaded the four-wheeler and my beloved Toro lawnmower (a Time Cutter Max model) onto our utility trailer.

We still had room on the trailer for the Kubota all-terrain vehicle, but the damn thing wouldn't start. 

Leave it, I suggested. After all, its engine had suffered some mysterious breakdown several months ago and was just a pile of junk. If the river inundates it with filthy flood water, what's the harm? We can repurpose it as Mississippi yard art.

But I was overruled. This family doesn't abandon its wounded, someone sternly reminded me. Indeed, we were experiencing a Blackhawk Down moment and were honor-bound to extract our inert Kubota from the river's voracious maw.

Plan A. We hitched the four-wheeler's winch to the Kubota's front bumper and attempted to pull the dead beast onto the trailer. No go. The Kubota was too heavy for the winch and didn't move.

Plan B. Using the pickup truck, we towed the Kubota to the top of a brushpile in the yard, hoping to get it elevated enough to be above the waterline when the floodwater arrived.

Again, no go. The Kubota's weight flattened the brushpile, and our moribund recreational vehicle sank all the way back to ground level.

Plan C. We decided to tow the Kubota to Lake Mary Store, a four-mile journey. With some trepidation, I volunteered to steer the Kubota as it was being pulled behind the truck. 

Could I do it? After all, I'm partially incapacitated by a stroke and wasn't sure my left arm was strong enough to manage the steering wheel, which is very hard to turn when the engine isn't running.

We would soon know. Charlie pulled out on the gravel road in his truck, doing about 20 miles an hour, dragging me and the Kubota at the end of a tow rope.

By this time, night had descended, and I rolled along in the darkness, unable to see anything other than the tailights of the truck.

It was an exhilarating experience. The Kubota steered easily after it got moving, and I effortlessly maneuvered around the potholes. My vehicle glided through the darkness in perfect silence.

This, I thought to myself, must be what it feels like to drive a Tesla. When the engine's off, the Kubota is as quiet as an electric vehicle, and of course, it gets great mileage when it's being towed.

In a few moments, we arrived at the Lake Mary Store. We unhitched the tow rope and rolled the Kubota downhill until it nested safely next to our party barge.

Success! Once again, our family outfoxed the Mississippi River, and we celebrated with a few Bud Lights.

No one gets left behind.