Feeling the Itch

While it seemed like the thing to do at the time, in retrospect, eating poison ivy was not one of my better ideas. The consequences provided me with a novel form of entertainment, true, but it was nothing I’d have purchased a ticket for. Of course a woman was involved—there always is. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

If you’ve spent any time at all in the Michigan outdoors with your sleeves up and your guard down, chances are you know the misery of The Itch. Then again, maybe not. Not all who come in contact with poison ivy or poison sumac experience an allergic reaction. At least, not right away. The notorious rash that can last for several weeks and even put you in the hospital is something you acquire through repeated exposure—not that I recommend you make the attempt, no sir-ree.

By the way…how do you feel about cashews? Like ‘em? You’ll be pleased to learn that poison ivy and poison sumac are members of the cashew family, which contains such other equally delightful relatives as poison oak, the poisonwood tree, and the Japanese lacquer tree. The resin of the latter is processed into a varnish commonly used on everything from rifle stocks and ashtrays to exquisite, Oriental objets d’art. And yes, you can get a rash from handling the merchandise, which naturally suggests two questions: 1) who first thought it would be a good idea to coat a wooden toilet seat with highly toxic sap, and 2) was he a relative of mine?

The magical ingredient in all these plants is a substance called urushiol. Fifty micrograms of the stuff is all it takes to cause a rash. Poison ivy and poison sumac are liberal dispensers of urushiol.

Poison ivy (Toxicodendron radicans) is by far the more ubiquitous of the two species. It takes on several forms, ranging from small, unassuming, herbaceous plants, to sprawling, woody shrubs, to vines that twist their way up old fence posts and scale trees to heights of fifty feet and more. Poison ivy is not selective about its habitat; you’ll find it everywhere—fields, forests, swamps, fruit orchards, even lawns. Your chances of encountering the plant are beyond good; they’re inevitable. So it pays to know the face of your enemy. Here is a photo of a poison ivy vine, and another showing a close-up of the leaves.

Bad as poison ivy is, poison sumac (Toxicodendron vernix) is even more virulent. Fortunately, you’re much less likely to run up against it. The typical staghorn sumac of roadsides and dry soils, with its saw-toothed leaves and erect spikes of red berries, poses no threat. It’s the smooth-leaved guy that grows in the wetlands and along lakeshores that you want to watch out for.

Poison sumac matures into a shrub or small tree up to twenty feet tall.

Not every wetland harbors poison sumac, but where it grows, it can grow thick. It loves cranberry bogs, and I’ve seen prairie fens that resembled sumac orchards. The Yankee Springs area in Barry County is full of the stuff. Wherever you see tamarack trees, be on the lookout for sumac as well. But don’t count on tamaracks to warn you—poison sumac grows quite happily without them. Just remember, sumac likes to keep its feet wet.

One dead give-away for both ivy and sumac is their drooping clusters of white berries, which appear in the summer and hang on through the fall. In the following photo of sumac sending out its first spring foliage, note the dangling, gray stems of old fruit clusters, picked clean by birds.

Remember—white berries. If the sumac you’re looking at has red berries, you’ve nothing to fear. The fruit is tart, and, as I learned in the Boy Scouts, makes a great pink lemonade. On the other hand, if the berries are white, making lemonade from them wouldn’t be such a good idea.

I ought to know. Most likely I’m the only person you’ll ever meet who can talk knowledgeably about poison ivy as a culinary experience.

I was seven years old and living in Niles Michigan. There in the countryside of Mission Hills, the ivy grew vigorously, festooning the trees with massive vines and guarding the thickets with wiry growth. However, gifted with the blissful disregard of a kid who had not yet experienced The Itch, I hardly gave the plant a second thought. I used to climb trees rampant with ivy vines and never reap so much as a solitary blister. I developed a disdain for the plant. I’d look at a clump of foliage with leaflets the size of skillets, and I’d snicker.“You call yourself poison ivy?” I’d say. “Ha! Wimp!”

Thus it was that I found myself one day playing in a thicket with Julie Dunning, a foxy eight-year-old imbued with the aura of experience one would expect of a girl one year my senior. Poison ivy sprung up all around us in robust, woody leafiness and overshadowed us from above with great, spreading vine branches.

“Lots of poison ivy here,” I remarked.

“I eat it,” Julie said. And she did. Reaching out, she grabbed a handful of leaves and started munching away.

I was not yet old enough to know the meaning of the word machismo, but I could feel mine rising to the surface. Was I going to be outdone by a girl? No way!

“I eat it too!” I said, and did the deed, thereby confirming the direct link between testosterone and stupidity. Older women have always had that kind of effect on me.

I cannot recommend poison ivy as table fare. I recollect it as being terribly bitter, coarse, leathery, and in need of croutons. In a surge of wisdom rare for one of such tender years, I spit out my mouthful. “Yecch!” I said. Wiping off my mouth with my sleeve, I moved on to other matters, unaware that what had just transpired had not been one of my golden moments.

I won’t describe in detail the drama that commenced the following morning when I woke up with a swollen face and a body covered head to toe with an angry rash. I vaguely remember a horrified shriek when my mom got her first glimpse of me. Of course, I had every reason to shriek, feeling both uncomfortable and embarrassed. For several weeks, I looked like a moving canvas daubed with pink calamine lotion.

I was too miserable to wonder how Julie Dunning had fared. But years later, in my teens, I ran into her, and from what I could see, the experience had certainly done her no lasting damage.

The moral of my story? “Leaflets three, let it be”—and whatever you do, don’t use it in a salad