Don't Panic

Rainbow House, the house I lived in from about age 10 to age 16, was surrounded on three sides by woods, cliffs, and creek, all of which were in turn surrounded by poison ivy. I spent almost all non-school waking hours climbing, crashing through, tugging on, or splashing in the landscape. I never once got poison ivy. I'm not sure whether that means I'm not allergic or that I'm really careful about avoiding poison ivy. (I am really careful about avoiding poison ivy.)

When I got out of the car today, there was poison ivy. I'm pretty sure I managed to not step on or brush any of it, plus I was wearing heavy trousers and cowgirl boots. I was pretty blase about it, since I have a long history of not getting poison ivy. Then Dad panicked. So now I'm thinking, what if I did brush up against it, and then tramped it all over the carpet and smeared it on the sheets of the bed when I sat down on the bed? I may or may not be allergic, but at least one other person who comes into contact with the bed and carpet (Ciro) is allergic, and sheets are a place where one rubs one's face.

I hate having to prove a negative.

(My life in pictures: candy sand, switchplate, ink, slippers, zucchini.)

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"If you've done six impossible things this morning, why not round it off with breakfast at Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe?"