Ticks

When we bought our Wisconsin cabin, they connected us with a local handyman, who is incredibly knowledgeable about the town, the cabin, the local fauna. Plus, he is one of those guys who wears sleeveless shirts. Not a shirt that he cut the sleeves off. A shirt that was purchased with the expressed detail of no sleeves.  

When I see him, our conversations go like this:

“Hi! What do we do if a bat gets in? What do we do if a mouse gets in? What do we do if a deer gets in? What do we do if a badger gets in? What do we do if a tick gets in?”

 “You live in a forest.” I don’t think he likes me very much.

Last time we were at the cabin with our awesome Evanston neighbors, we spent a lot of time talking about ticks getting in. Our handyman says they are just part of Wisconsin life. But ticks hold a special horror for those of us used to living in the cement and manicured lawns of Evanston. Ticks looks weird. Like slightly angrier spiders. Also, they SUCK YOUR BLOOD. Oh, and if you don’t extract them correctly, their heads will be lodged in your scalp forever. Did I mention Lime Disease?

My brothers and I spent summers in Colorado, where ticks managed to stick their faces in our bodies at least once a week. I vividly remember my grandmother holding a lit match next to my fluffy 1980’s hair to coax a tick out of my skull.

As a result, we require everyone who frolics at our cabin to be dipped in a full body OFF! bath. Plus wear a hat. Plus a mosquito net poncho. Plus chainmail. Plus a jacket for dinner.

After some overcooked burgers and undercooked corn on the cob, we retired to our couches for a friendly game of Charades. Did you know I am the world’s worst Charades player? I didn’t either until that night. My version of “Urgent” was to simply bug out my eyes and shake my hands as if I had just finished washing at a truck stop.

Elijah, surprisingly matter of factly, pointed at his leg and said, “Hey, is this a tick?”

Yes. Yes it was. We sprang into action. We killed, tortured and dismembered the offending tick. Diana opened up a bottle of whisky. We then picked through each other’s hair and orifices. Everyone was clean.

Except Eli. He had what looked like another tick embedded in his scalp. Our neighbor Chris, who was slightly more sober than I, heated up a nail with an open flame. I stuck the red hot nail onto the black little thingy. After burning his skull, I realized it was not, in fact, a tick. It was an old scab from some other injury. Oops.

Eli surprisingly took it all in stride. The parasites, the burning nails on his scalp, the parental screaming. I was impressed.

I was also impressed by Diana’s fierce desire to destroy every tick within 400 miles of our cabin. I imagine Diana riding inside a Huey helicopter while “Flight of the Valkyries” blasts as she rains fire on our indigenous tick villagers.

When she asked the local exterminators what could be done, they said, “You live in a forest.” But they’ll still take our money.