Column: It's raining wood ticks
A wood tick fell onto my arm from the driver's side sun visor in my car on the way home from work.
I hate wood ticks. I don't really understand why they were invented, either as part of God's plan or Darwin's. There are creatures that fit nicely into either of these; some of them fit nicely into both. Then there are wood ticks.
Especially when there are wood ticks raining from ones' sun visor. Sure, they fall out of trees, triggered by the vibrations coming from creatures walking beneath them. They pop onto you from grasses, where they must spend what seems like eternity to them clinging to the very tops, waiting, waving in the wind.
But sun visors? At first, I didn't know what fell. I just knew something dropped through my field of vision, as I watched through the windshield at the road coming at me. A speck of dust? Hmmm. No. It seemed too large. A piece of Ford? Hmmm. It could be my car falling apart, tiny piece by piece. Lately, my opinion of my car has decreased immensely, what with my keys running off and hiding in the compost pile and tires that seem to need replacing continually.
Maybe it was, I thought, after it fell, just a larger speck of dust. It seemed to have a chip-like shape, although that was just a fleeting impression I got as it fell. Really fleeting. Driving home after work, into the afternoon sun, often seemed more like sleep therapy than driving. More than once, I've turned off onto a gravel road, convinced that I could go right to sleep if I pulled over and stopped.
But no. Life doesn't work like that. As soon as I stop, so does the drowsiness that seemed to want me to close my eyes and take a nap at 60 per.
Two or three miles down the road, I've forgotten all about whatever it was that I thought fell from the sun visor. I'm thinking of stuff to do once I get home, situations that don't seem to be coming out quite as well as I would like them, the bill for the new set of tires, the...
Then I looked down at my right hand. There was a wood tick crawling toward my fingers, just off my shirt cuff. It had been a wood tick! It had fallen from my sun visor. I couldn't wait to tell my tire people about this: Look, I would say to them - those tires jiggle so badly even wood ticks cannot hang on inside the car!
I love spring. Trees leafing out, grass greening up, the perfume of basswood trees in bloom, apple trees blossoming, wood ticks falling.
No, I hate wood ticks. I've had some bad encounters with the little buggers. I still remember watching one crawl across the back of the lady sitting in front of me in church a long time ago, and what she thought of me when I reached forward in the middle of The Lord's Prayer and plucked it from her skin. Pervert! I'm thinking that's what she thought, judging from the look I got from both her, and after she whispered to her husband, him.
How about when you're talking to someone you just ran into, like by accident at the grocery store, or something, and while you're conversing, you see a wood tick crawl out of their hair.
Jeez, you want to say, you've got a ... But wait. Should you? Wood ticks are not one of the more beautiful creatures around, and therefore it's kind of a negative to have them associated with you, and if you point one out on someone's face, what you are kind of saying is: Jeez, lady, you're crawling with bugs.
I hate wood ticks.