We’d been heavily warned to avoid the poison-oak-covered stump after what had happened to Aunt Ada.

She’d caught poison oak for the first time during her twentieth summer, the same summer she was to marry George Jordan, the boy she’d dated since Junior High. It was to be a big wedding because everyone wanted to see George get married. Even small towns have a “somebody,” and George Jordan was the somebody in Harshbarger Mills. He’d been the quarterback who carried the Mills Bobcats to victory over the Nitro Wildcats in the AA State Championship game in ‘69. “It will never happen again,” sighed the vets over steaming cups of coffee at the West Virginian restaurant. Mills High was getting stomped regularly now. “An athlete like George comes along once in a blue moon.”  

Ava had worked as a secretary for Herschel Turley at his State Farm office since graduation, saving every dime for her wedding. Her gown was organza covered with Chantilly lace. The neck was high, and the sleeves were long, the wrists fastened with three pearl buttons. The local dry cleaners had packed it for her, and the dress hung on a padded hanger from a drum ceiling light in the spare bedroom, a stuffed body without hands or feet. The two-tier lace veil waited in the closet. It looked uncomfortable and itchy, but Ava couldn’t wait to wear it; she was counting the days to her wedding. 

“This has been going on between those two since they were kids,” said Grandma, bending to measure the length of my dress. I was to be the flower girl and John Harry the ring bearer. “I’ll be glad when this hoopla is over.” 

She took a pin from her mouth and stuck it into the fold of the hem. Everything was going as smooth as things can go before a wedding until Ava appeared and told us she was going up the hill to the old orchard for Queen Anne’s Lace. 

Mills Baptist had six long windows on either side of the sanctuary. Ava wanted a floral arrangement on each sill. She’d already decided to use the blue hydrangeas (free and growing on the left of the house) but wanted a contrast besides white roses. She’d chosen Queen Anne’s Lace, but the plants that grew on the roadsides were dirty. 

“I’m going to scour the hill,” she announced.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Grandma, touching my shoulder to keep me still. “That hill is covered in poison oak. Poison ivy, too.” 

“Never had either one,” said Ava, and slipped out the back door. 

She was back two hours later with a load of Queen Anne’s Lace and itchy arms. 

“Go shower,” Grandma urged. “Denise can wash the flowers in the sink.”

Indeed, I would. I’d have done anything for Ava, who didn’t seem like an aunt at all. She was the youngest of the sisters, and I’d been born when she was a teen. Mom told me that Ava watched over me like a second mother. One of my earliest memories is having bright pink fingernails and toes, courtesy of Ava. Another is spilling said nail polish all over the floor. I was happy to be in her wedding because I hadn’t seen much of her lately. I was busy growing, while she was busy being in love with George. 

I carried a stool to the sink.  Ava and I were now face to face. I was six years old with a child’s understanding, but I knew Ava had never looked as beautiful as she did that day.  “I’ll do a good job.” 

“I know you will,” she tousled my hair, “but I want to strip some of the leaves. It won’t take long.”

“Ava,” cautioned Grandma. “You don’t know what you’ve been into on that hill.” 

“You worry too much,” she replied, and began to wash the stalks and strip leaves.

By the time, she’d finished the experimental arrangement—one huge hydrangea surrounded by smaller lacey heads—her arms were splotched up and down. By morning, her legs looked the same. Dr. Veach told her she had a bad case of poison oak, gave her steroid shot and a bottle of calamine, and told her the rash would disappear in two weeks. 

By the time she saw a dermatologist in Huntington, she was in the throes of an allergic reaction. The itching kept her up at night and scabs had formed. The wedding was postponed, and she stayed in her room for most of the summer, answering George’s calls until he stopped calling; then she took no calls at all. 

The wedding was off, George Jordan left town, and Ava Sunderland didn’t leave the house until fall. Rumor had it, she’d nearly died of a broken heart. The truth was that Grandma, tired of waiting for a doctor’s cure, decided to cure Ava herself, subjecting her to bleach baths, lukewarm showers, oatmeal pastes, and vinegar sprays. She wore gloves to sleep (when she did sleep) to control the scratching. Finally, the rash left, and Ava had emerged, looking the same, but for an elongated scar down the back of her left calf. 

But even knowing all I knew, I plunged my hand into the wicked green leaves and grabbed the pamphlet, folding it around the pickle jar.

The first thing John Harry did when I got close enough, was grab it.

“Hey, what’s this?” he hooted, dangling the book by his fingertips like dirty underwear.

“Give it back,” I shouted. I wanted to kick him but I was holding a jar of ants.

to be con’t.