Bandages of Honor

There was an expression back in the Renaissance: To have not experienced serious trouble was to be one on whom "the black ox hath not trod." This painful image makes me appreciate modern gardening techniques. My continued life as a biped no longer depends on the sure-footedness of a one-ton beast just ahead of me in the furrow, or my agility in getting out of its way. The ills I've endured in gardens rarely loom this large. Still, there's a host of them -- insidious little demons that just as surely do me in.

Last year a rose thorn sunk itself into the third finger of my right hand, where I ignored it and went on with my pruning. By nightfall the finger had swollen to double its size. Our local ER, skilled at saving gardeners from stab wounds, dug out the thorn's extra payload of manure and soil bacteria and put me on a course of Cipro. Problem solved, and I was back playing in the dirt the next day.

This year's misfortune was more daunting. We all begin spring planting season with tender hands, unused to the chapping effect of cold, damp earth. Those abrasive soil particles quickly open the way to irritation, infection and -- worst of all -- poison ivy. Having been highly susceptible to this toxic vine my whole life, I can normally spot it from afar, whether in its red-leaved early emergence; the apple green stage of its first flush; the deep, duller green it takes in high summer; or, finally, the red of its fall hue, blazing like a stop sign. I recognize its trunk twining on a tree, and the slight fuzziness of its roots when I encounter them underground.

But no gardener spots poison ivy as a handful of dead, shriveled leaves littering the ground during spring cleanup. This is how it struck. By dinnertime my hands were red, puffed up and agonizingly itchy. Desperately, I showered and laundered everything I had touched, knowing that any renewed contact with urushiol, the active ingredient in this crucible of plant terrorism, would cause new patches to appear. It took more than a week of prednisone and Benadryl to get it under control and return me to planting out the peas, with few days to enjoy that brief, innocent time in the garden before the black flies (followed by the mosquitoes) made their first hatch.

Summer ills at our farm don't end with the bugs. Small injuries are common events. We grow a lot of salad, much of it harvested with little serrated knives made with consummate Swiss skill by Victorinox. Because we value efficiency, strive for a nice clean cut to keep the leaves from browning and -- not the least of it -- engage in competitive spinach-picking, these knives are kept very sharp. As a result, bandage strips are a big part of our look. We're rarely without at least one, and we demand performance from them. When I shop at our local pharmacy, I may be baffled by the great wall of mousses and styling gels, but I know my bandages. I favor the sturdiest, most waterproof kinds (and a few sheers, for dress-up). The Band-Aid brand is still the best, and Nexcare's adhesive is excellent, but both have those peel-away strips that are hard to maneuver while bleeding. Young scientists, note: We need a better bandage, so get to work.

If you share my view that growing food is a joyful outdoor activity, one that keeps you young and fit, you'll understand that none of these mishaps will ever deter gardeners from marching out each year and facing whatever peril might arise. Like any practitioners of rugged activities, we wear our wounds with pride. ("Oh, this cast? Icy day at Killington." "The ice pack? Just turned my compost heap.")

But sometimes I think we'd be better off with a little less grit and more brains. How about gloves , Barbara? Especially in spring . And couldn't my husband use something better than a tractor and rear-mounted grader to move snow away from the greenhouses, something that wouldn't require him to look over his shoulder? (An ox?) You can tell he's been plowing snow because he's so stiff he turns his whole body when you speak to him instead of just his head.

During tomato season he acquires what he calls "tomato pruner's thumb." It isn't painful, but his thumbs and forefingers turn an indelible, deep brownish green that lasts for several days, then is renewed when he prunes again the following week. I suppose it goes with the rest of his appearance -- the sunburn, the frayed baseball cap, the favorite farm jacket with so many Tyvek patches that people think he does endorsements for the company. Besides, tomato pruner's thumb gives him an excuse to avoid social events where people stand around making awkward small talk and lifting canapes daintily from silver trays. He'd offer this as proof that, despite the hazards, gardening has its compensations.