Pretty Poison

In case you were wondering, life on the ridge isn’t all sunsets and serenading songbirds. We’ve had to become reluctant experts in logging—more than we ever hoped, dreamed, or frankly, had the mental bandwidth for. Not all the critters here are friendly. In fact, some of the plants seem downright homicidal.

We’ve learned that pine trees grow tall and majestic—right before they randomly decide to fall over or snap in half like overcooked spaghetti. Sweetgum trees, despite their deceptively charming name, produce little spiky landmines known as “gumballs,” which are apparently designed to pierce through footwear and possibly the human soul. So, tree removal has become something of a survival skill.

We can now identify poison ivy and poison oak with the wary precision of a seasoned FBI profiler. It’s not a hobby, it’s a lifestyle.

And just recently, I discovered that the delicate wildflowers I’d been admiring—maybe even about to bring inside and plop in a vase—were not Queen Anne’s Lace, but hemlock. Yes, that hemlock. The stuff that helped Socrates check out early. Every part of it is toxic, and people have mistaken it for carrots or parsley—two foods you really don’t want to get wrong. It may not give you a rash like poison ivy, but it can irritate sensitive skin, which I apparently have, according to my resume of “All Allergies Known to Mankind.”

So no, I won’t be gathering bouquets anytime soon. Unless they’re plastic. Or come with a warning label.