ack ack ack ack ack ack ack     PARSNIPS   ack ack ack ack ack ack ack

Remember parsnips, those nasty, acrid wanna-be carrots that sit on your uvula and repeatedly kick you in the gag reflex? When my mother said I had to sit at the table until I ate all of my parsnips, there was only one reasonable response. “Then this is where I’ll grow up.”  Well, it turns out there’s something even worse than parsnips! There are attack parsnips. 

Meet the Wild Parsnip, aka Pastinaca Sativa. Sounds like Silvio Berlusconi’s latest love interest, but he’d regret that liaison.

Here’s what you need to know about Wild Parsnips:

1.          You do not have one Wild Parsnip. If you have one, you have 

             thousands.

2.         You cannot kill a Wild Parsnip.

3.         A Wild Parsnip will laugh at you if you try to kill it.

4.          They disguise themselves as Queen Anne’s Lace.

5.          No matter how mad you get, you don’t want to touch them.

Ever.

Oh, you may think it’s no big deal to touch a Wild Parsnip. You grab one and say, “What’s the big deal?”  Indeed it is a big deal, a big deal called photodermatitis. 


Wild Parsnips have chemical components called furanocoumarins. (That’s probably why parsnips taste so nasty.) Furanocoumarins get all excited when hit by UV light; they are photoactivated. Touch a parsnip, let the sun shine on the spot it contacted, and that area will become red, begin to itch, and then blister. The itching will not be a problem for long; that’s because the pain that follows will make you forget about it. If you get a good exposure you can erode your skin and deeper tissues.

We have been lucky not to have invasive Mustard Garlic in our woods, but Wild Parsnips have crept across the county. They love the ditches and sunny fields.These plants start out as flat rosettes on the ground. They put up tall stems (3-4 feet high) with leaves and then multiple yellow flowers. You can dig, pull, mow, cut, burn, and spray these plants. Then you can listen to them snickering. They just call in reinforcements. Most people let them do their thing, but I have a need to eradicate parsnips of any kind. I do admit that one of the silliest things I ever uttered was, “I got them all this time!”

I guess there’s some poetic justice when The Girl Who Wouldn’t Eat Parsnips ends up being haunted by Wild Killer Parsnips for the rest of her life.

For a photo gallery of Wild Parsnips, cut and paste this ginormous address:

http://images.search.yahoo.com/images/view?back=http%3A%2F%2Fimages.search.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%2Fimages%3F_adv_prop%3Dimage%26va%3Dwild%2Bparsnips%26fr%3Daaplw&w=531&h=425&imgurl=www.wiseacre-gardens.com%2Fplants%2Fwildflower%2Fwild_parsnip_foliage.jpg&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.wiseacre-gardens.com%2Fplants%2Fwildflower%2Fparsnip_wild.html&size=139KB&name=Wild+Parsnip+-+f...&p=wild+parsnips&oid=f97531296510b13d02ab3eff29c4be81&fr2=&no=8&tt=2030&sigr=123mlvhfe&sigi=123a4dk6q&sigb=12mlku2sj&.crumb=Suv5Qbrozs7

THE BRIDGE PARTY

When we got married I made a deal with the groom: you quit smoking, and I’ll learn to play bridge. He quit many times, but each time he fell off the tobacco wagon, I figured I was off the hook. Our dental insurance covered the only bridges I ever came near.

Eventually he really did quit, and I––stonewalled. All the bridge players I know always, always, always say, “We just play for fun. It’s not that serious.”  Then they proceed to snarl their way through the game, kicking their partners under the table. They end up not speaking and get divorced. I’m more of a euchre girl. If you trump your partner’s ace, it’s justifiable homicide. Other than that, it’s fairly relaxed.

I never kept my end of the bargain. That creates some internal conflict, but I can live with it. Guilt and a shredded self-concept are preferable to learning how to play bridge.

I was on my way home from a trip last summer when my husband informed me there was going to be a neighborhood bridge party that very night. We don’t have a neighborhood. And the closest neighbors don’t have that telltale musty smuggy smell of the bridge player. And besides––he knows I can’t play bridge. I figured he was kidding.

There was a bridge party all right, but it was Bridge, Iowa County style. After a year out of commission, the bridge over the Black Diamond Road was finally going to open the next morning.

The bridge over Old Man's Creek––open at last

In a matter of minutes,  60 people from a 5 miles radius arrived for a bridge opening party. They came on bikes, in cars, and on 4X4s. They ranged from the wrinkled newborn to the wrinkled octogenarian.
Tailgates dropped and Weber cookers, 8 ft. tables, beer coolers, and chairs appeared. There was pea salad, glorified rice, 7 layer salad, bean dip, burgers, chicken, rolls and mostly there were pies oh my. It was wonderful to have the bridge open. It was inspiring to have the bridge open while eating cherry pie.

A realistic man, my husband gave me credit for being at a bridge party, and our long-standing deal was satisfied.

HALE BOPP

If you were banished to the prairie, do you think you’d miss the bright lights of the city? You need to know there are some hefty compensations out here. The sky is so dark that you feel as though you’re walking through the thick canopy of stars, not under it. The horizon is actually visible; unobstructed sunsets and sunrises are delivered daily.

To get us off to a very good start, the first year we lived here the Comet Hale-Bopp appeared at the end of our lane. (Ordinarily if the sky turns green, it’s not a good sign. We have special basements for that in the Midwest.) We had our own personal comet show. We set up two folding chairs in front of the garage doors and peered at the green sky for a couple of weeks. Hale Bopp was not subtle––no one ever said, “Hey, Clarice, you think that’s that comet thingee over there?”

If I had noticed a new comet, I’d have hesitated to mention it anyone. But Mr. Hale and Mr. Bopp did not hesitate when they spotted this beautiful display within the constellation Sagittarius. They reported it to the Central Bureau for Astronomical Telegrams. I am certain that would not have occurred to me, because I was unaware that there was a place to report “transient astronomical events.” This organization gathers such information and sends out telegrams!

It's a good thing I didn't know about the Central Bureau  other transient events appeared to me––that Coot, the crop-duster, a floater––they all look the same to me until they’re pretty darn close. Imagine the headline:  Williamsburg Woman reports duck to Central Bureau for Astronomical Telegrams.

Turns out Comet Hale Bopp was anything but a new comet; people in ancient Egypt set up their folding chairs in front of the Pyramids and watched it.

We all can be happy that Mr. Hale and Mr. Bopp didn’t hail from my hometown, a little German farming community in Michigan. Comet Reimenschneider-Eisenbeiser probably wouldn't have caught on. Now Comet Pickleseimer, that’s a different story,

To report your own transient astronomical events:

http://www.cbat.eps.harvard.edu/index.html

More on Comet Hale Bopp:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comet_Hale-Bopp