Ticks

Dear Mom,

Talking about Corpus Christi brought up a flood of memories. I moved there about a year after my first marriage. We had been living in Akron, Ohio. I landed a job with a private construction firm, all nice folks. They liked teasing and calling me a dumb Yankee. And playing tricks on me. I was a good sport except for one prank.

They caught wind that I couldn’t stand ticks. My boss, Jimmy lived on a farm and traveled home for the weekend. Monday he came to work with a jar full of the nasty bloodsuckers. I wanted to vomit. He pulled a big fat one out of the jar—nearly the size of a quarter—puffy, ready to explode.

I stepped back.

Jimmy held it in his hand. “Got this one off Fido.” The tick must have been home on the dog for years. Things are bigger in Texas.

I shivered.

Then he threw it at me! I screamed watching the obese tick flying towards my body. It bounced off and landed on the floor. I immediately stomped on it. The tick popped with a crack and blood shot every which way under my foot.

The men doubled over, cackling. Jimmy’s hand reached into the jar. I took off running—shot straight out the door. They hollered for me to come back. “Only if you promise to destroy those things!” They did, but I never turned my back on them. Not for a long time. I wasn’t that dumb.