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.
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.