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SPEAKER: I first saw the itchy bumps around my ankles one sunny, dry summer morning. Must be heat rash, I thought absently as I dressed and woke my campers for breakfast. Most days, I didn't have much time to think of anything but my summer job as a camp counselor. Melissa was home sick. Jenny and Lindy screamed at each other. Brenda had a devastating crush on an older man, a ninth grader. And this day was no exception.

Over the next few days, Melissa made friends. Jenny and Lindy made up. And Brenda made advances. I kept scratching, soothing the perpetual traumas in the cabin. Oh, I broke my hairdryer. Will he sit by me during campfire? was much more important than a pesky little rash.

The rash spread up my legs and along the palms of my hands. I hardly noticed until I woke one morning with my legs stuck to the sheets. I had scratched myself bloody in my sleep. This was more than a little case of heat rash. My campers were happily disgusted as I stripped my bed and piled the sticky sheets to take to the laundry.

My ankles were swollen to the size of softballs, oozing blood and a yellow-white fluid. My calves and thighs were covered with hundreds of small bumps and spattered with dried blood. My fingers were starting to swell. And the bumps had spread up my arms and neck and into my hair.

Jenny was fascinated. My little brother got bit by a Doberman once. And it looked sort of like that, without the little bumps, though. He had to go to the hospital.

Looks like you have poison ivy, said Lindy, frowning professionally. She should know. After all, she is a doctor's daughter. You aren't going to die, are you? said Melissa. I don't think so, I said, looking at my throbbing ankles as I scratched the back of my neck with one hand. I think I'll make it.

That afternoon, I biked into town to see the doctor. Looks like you have poison ivy, Lindy's dad told me, frowning professionally. After a brief stop at the pharmacy, I biked back to camp, carrying some nasty-looking pills and a bottle of greenish liquid.

For the next several weeks, I coated myself in calamine lotion and bandages, popped pills, and swallowed spoonfuls of the green slime. The old campers left, and new ones arrived. Soon, I was scratching the roof of my mouth with the fork. And the campers knew me only as Ivy. Spontaneous choruses of poison ivy followed me around camp.

Every square inch of my body itched, and I scratched. When I noticed blisters inside my eyelids, I knew I might need more than pills. My fellow counselors happily offered to tie my hands together. But I came up with a better solution-- I learned to make friendship bracelets.

I looped strands of embroidery floss around my fingers, safety pinned the ends to my shorts, and stopped scratching for a while. I still scratched in my sleep. But now, my fingers had something better to do during the day. I became a friendship bracelet factory, making over 100 bracelets in four days.

I couldn't scratch when I was in the middle of a pattern. So I started making necklaces to keep my fingers busy longer. No one minded that I made friendship bracelets during morning chapel, afternoon recreation, or even during meals. I could sing or talk or referee while I made bracelets. At least, I wasn't scratching.

My swollen ankles were returning to normal. And the blisters were starting to heal, although my fingers, rubbed raw by the embroidery floss, didn't show much improvement. I gave the bracelets away to happy campers, who were glad to have a gift from their counselor. By the end of the week, I was healed enough to hug my campers goodbye.

The first letter came near the end of the next week. The bracelet you gave me was really nice, wrote the girl. But I think it gave me poison ivy. Can you make me another one that doesn't give me a rash?