Yesterday, I just couldn’t take it anymore. Ouchy back and all, I got down on my hands and knees to weed the front yard.
I don’t know if it was caused by our warmer than normal winter, or if our grass is just getting wearing out, or if our lawn care service changed the spraying schedule and deferred the weed killer application, but this spring we have been beset by a grotesque plague of weeds. Dandelions, clover, and other ugly looking plants had sprung up everywhere, ruining the uniform, velvety green carpet all homeowners aspire to and making our yard look like a patchwork quilt of unsightliness. It was offensive to look at, and I didn’t want the neighbors to think that we were letting our yard go to seed.
So I went out on weed patrol, with my paper bag and my weed control tools. I know spraying is effective, but I think it’s best to get down close to the spot, get some dirt under your fingernails, and dig the weeds out roots and all. I use some spoon-sized shovels to get under the weeds and work them out of the ground; dandelions, for example, come out with a satisfying pop. And, because I’m using small shovel, the yard doesn’t end up looking like I’ve got a gopher problem.
I worked on the front and side yards for a few hours yesterday and left them looking moderately presentable. Neighborhood pride is a powerful motivator.
My hands touched the poison ivy as I was kneeling and weeding the beds on the side of the house, seating heavily as I worked in the summer sun. This turned out to be most unfortunate for me. When I mopped my sodden brow the diabolical irritants on my hands were able to get into the open pores on my face and were splashed onto my arms and chest and legs. By that evening, it was clear that I was in trouble, and by the next morning my rash — 
