Ivy

I have a love/hate relationship with ivy. The vine proved my nemesis in 1995 when my husband Adam and I moved into our first home. The former owners planted ivy against the house along its north side, and as the vine ascended the creamy stucco wall, it trapped moisture in the cement, and in time, this invited a host of problems including termites and rotted sill plates. The ivy was long gone by the time we moved in, but its remnants remained. We had to take off all the stucco and rebuild that side of the house. Adam cursed the ivy that once crept up the house and all ivy thereafter. He got rash after rash from weeding the overgrown flower beds in our yard. It seemed like one of us always had poison ivy rashes during the first few years that we lived on North Summit Avenue. But deep inside, I loved this creepy creature. Ivy crawling up a stately brick building signifies tradition and prestige. It’s rich. It’s elegant. It’s so romantic that I had my florist place ivy in my bridesmaids’ bouquets. I loved the way it cascading down the front of their gowns. I never admitted it to Adam, but my love affair with ivy persisted even though that ivy fiasco cost us thousands of dollars in repairs and too many itchy, sleepless nights to count. When we moved into our second home, I planted ivy as ground cover–far away from the house of course! I usually have an ivy plant somewhere in my home in a pot or urn. They last for years with just minimal attention. I’ve chosen to see the goodness in ivy and have long forgiven its faults.