Clearing Fence Lines, Catching Poison Ivy

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The day broke cool with a heavy dew, the temperature at least 10 degrees lower than it had been during the dog days. The forecast temperatures would not break 90 degrees. That passes for early autumn weather in East Texas, a period when summer can rudely return without notice. It was time to begin clearing fencerows and around Pancho’s Pond here at Three Geese Farm.

This is one of those projects that takes time to bubble to the top of the never empty to-do list. Mowing and bushhogging take precedent. The grass can get away from you if neglected. The whole dang place can turn back into the Pine Curtain amazingly quickly. And chopping down large stalks of weeds, some with trunks thumb-size and larger, is much harder work than sitting on a tractor listening to Pod Save America while the rotary cutter does the work.

I awoke with ambition, filled my Yeti with coffee, and headed down to load the tractor bucket. Weed whacker. Check. Lops. Check. Chainsaw. Check. I slathered on sunblock, popped in the earpods, and began the slow process of clearing the fencerow by the long driveway, since it is the first one visible to visitors.

It was slow but not altogether unpleasant work, using the lops to cut the stalks as close to the ground as possible, then cranking the weed whacker, which is an industrial version with a powerful engine and thick twine. When the twine got hooked around a piece of the hogwire fence, the force would nearly jerk the implement out of my hands. I piled the weed stalks into the tractor bucket to haul to the burn pile.

I worked steadily while listening to podcasts, switching from political discourse to true crime after a while. (Not that there is much difference.) When I finished that fence row, I stepped back to admire my efforts. The fence row is clean, allowing me to see where the barbed wire needs tightening, the corner pipe posts repainted. I next tackled the entire perimeter of Pancho’s Pond while our donkey watched intently, no doubt wondering if I had brought treats. Indeed, I had. A couple of fish broke the surface, reminding me it is time to refill the feeder. With the pond’s edge cleared, I called it a day and headed inside to clean up, reveling in an honest day’s work. Pancho’s Pond has never looked better.

A long day in the sun left me worn out. After showering and reading for a bit, I was in bed not long after dark, unable to fight my heavy eyelids any longer. I awoke to an itching right arm that I had been absently scratching in my slumber.

Poison ivy.

I never saw the noxious weed while clearing the fence, despite spending a lifetime looking out for those three shiny leaves. Of course, it would not be summer if I didn’t get poison ivy at some point. It has been my nemesis since childhood.

Luckily, my resistance to poison ivy grew as my hair turned grayer. As a kid, I contracted some truly gruesome cases, the rash showing up in places best left unmentioned, the only “cure” at the time being calamine lotion and bathing with Epsom salts. Neither was particularly effective. The worst case of poison ivy contracted as an adult came back when I played golf in my 30s. I hit my drive into the woods at the Diboll golf course and went searching for my ball. I found both my ball and an impressive crop of poison ivy. Two days later, I headed to the doctor for a steroid shot. Both of my arms looked like stuffed sausages. This might partially explain why I gave up golf, along with a marked lack of ability or God-given talent.

Now when a rash appears, I slather on prescription-strength cortisone lotion, which dries it up in a few days. All hail the wonders of modern medicine.

With autumn now officially here, I calculate at most two more mowings and one more round of bushhogging before dormancy. That will leave plenty of time to keep cleaning fence rows before spring.

I plan to wear long sleeves next time I tackle those weeds. Poison ivy is not my friend.

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