If I had lived 200 years ago I would have been called "sickly." I would have been one of those people who was constantly run-down. I would be the one everybody looked at with sad eyes and the knowing nod of the head as I sniffled and coughed my way through life. I wouldn't be able to provide for the family because gardening made me too sick to do anything else. Poor me.
I hate cottonwood. Cottonwood trees infect the planet with their beautiful, fuzzy spawn, coating the planet with a fine layer of spring "snow." Sure it looks pretty, but cottonwood is pure evil.
Every April the cottonwood trees would bloom and every April I would get sick. Until the spring my dad cut down our cottonwood tree. God bless him.
I thought that when I left Texas I had left the cottonwood behind.
Our neighborhood has a cottonwood tree. Every April it blooms and every April I get sick. I take my zyrtec. I use my nasal stereoids. I use my neti pot. I stand in a hot shower. In my 41 years I haven't found anything that will work. (And before you start recommending decongestants and cough syrup, I can't take them. When my neurologist says "no" I tend to follow her advice.)
I dream of the day this tree will be gone.
I want to sneak over and cut it down in the middle of the night. But then I remember that a) I don't own a chainsaw and b) even if I did, I don't know how to fell a tree.
So while I wait for lightening to hit the tree, even if it means our power goes out, I'll spend every April (and May) sick.