It was hot, humid and stuffy inside the country church that day. And worse yet, it was Saturday. My mom drug me along either because she didn’t have anyone to leave me with or she thought I would enjoy sitting in a hot stuffy church on a Saturday squeezed in between her and some other overdressed woman who sang horribly off-key. I have to admit I enjoyed the breeze the well-coiffed lady created as she sent her perfume my direction waving the Shannon Funeral Home fan with the picture of Jesus praying in the garden. But that, too, got boring. Did I say boring? We would have to redefine the word to make it fit here!
After a lunch of fried chicken and chocolate cake, I convinced Mom that if all the other kids could play outside for the rest of the afternoon, I should be extended the same courtesy. This was so much better. I don’t remember what we played that day, but I do remember that there were many trees—ok, make that a small forest that surrounded the cemetery. Having carefully navigated through the graveyard without stepping on a grave (lest we fall into one!) we played in the shade.
One of the boys pointed out a plant growing up the bark of many of the trees. He gave it a name I do not recall. But I knew what it was. It was poison ivy. He said it was not and explained all the characteristics of poison ivy and that this plant had none of those. But I knew it was poison ivy as I had previous experience with this evil weed. He insisted and I was not backing down. I knew I was right.
So to prove my position and to show this idiot who was right, I took a handful of leaves and rubbed them over my hands, my arms, my neck and my legs. I told him that if I were correct, we would know by tomorrow. I would like to point out that I was definitely 100% right. There was no doubt. It was, indeed, poison ivy. I spent the next two weeks looking like a pink leper. There was not enough calamine lotion in Missouri to ease my suffering. My mom’s entire vocabulary became, “Don’t scratch, you’ll make it worse.” Worse? That’s hardly imaginable. Don’t scratch? How about, don’t blink or don’t breathe? But! I was right. 100% right!
I still find it odd to observe what lengths we will go to in order to prove our ‘rightness.’ (Yes, I include myself despite my early experience.) Why are we so determined to be right, that we would rather be 100% wrong than to be almost right?
By the way, I have no idea who that boy was. I never saw him again. Unless he is, by some chance—that far exceeds any odds in Vegas—reading this, he most likely still thinks that plant was NOT poison ivy.
After a lunch of fried chicken and chocolate cake, I convinced Mom that if all the other kids could play outside for the rest of the afternoon, I should be extended the same courtesy. This was so much better. I don’t remember what we played that day, but I do remember that there were many trees—ok, make that a small forest that surrounded the cemetery. Having carefully navigated through the graveyard without stepping on a grave (lest we fall into one!) we played in the shade.
One of the boys pointed out a plant growing up the bark of many of the trees. He gave it a name I do not recall. But I knew what it was. It was poison ivy. He said it was not and explained all the characteristics of poison ivy and that this plant had none of those. But I knew it was poison ivy as I had previous experience with this evil weed. He insisted and I was not backing down. I knew I was right.
So to prove my position and to show this idiot who was right, I took a handful of leaves and rubbed them over my hands, my arms, my neck and my legs. I told him that if I were correct, we would know by tomorrow. I would like to point out that I was definitely 100% right. There was no doubt. It was, indeed, poison ivy. I spent the next two weeks looking like a pink leper. There was not enough calamine lotion in Missouri to ease my suffering. My mom’s entire vocabulary became, “Don’t scratch, you’ll make it worse.” Worse? That’s hardly imaginable. Don’t scratch? How about, don’t blink or don’t breathe? But! I was right. 100% right!
I still find it odd to observe what lengths we will go to in order to prove our ‘rightness.’ (Yes, I include myself despite my early experience.) Why are we so determined to be right, that we would rather be 100% wrong than to be almost right?
By the way, I have no idea who that boy was. I never saw him again. Unless he is, by some chance—that far exceeds any odds in Vegas—reading this, he most likely still thinks that plant was NOT poison ivy.
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