On the bench in the woodlot

 I’m back in the woodlot after a case of poison ivy. I told myself I’d be off for a few days, but three weeks passed.

I’m pulling up English ivy, which is ankle- to shin-deep. The poison ivy lurks beneath.

In the winter, I wore coveralls, and was proud of them, as my grandfather would say. In June — in Georgia — coveralls are awfully warm.

But I have to have them. I’m good for just an hour or two a day.

As I was sitting on the bench in the woodlot, taking a break and listening to the crows complain, I was grateful for the work. My friend Melvyn, who was a physician, said many people have trouble sleeping as they age. He was among them. I wondered how he would have fared if he’d had a woodlot.

Sound sleep is not the only benefit. When I’m working in the woodlot, I’m less cranky, less impatient, less prone to get exasperated reading the newspaper in exasperating times.

I think that is true, though I don’t know why. And the Wise Woman would scoff at any self-reporting on crankiness.

Still, I wish medical researchers would study woodlots.

• Note: For the original misadventure, see “Ivies: English and poison,” May 9, 2025.