“Would you like some nametags?” We’d just arrived at a summer picnic with Partners in Behavioral Milestones, a group that provided immeasurable help for kids on the autism spectrum, and stopped at the greeting kiosk.
“Sure.” I motioned to the elder boy. “This is James, he’s Ian, and I’m Bill.”
The young lady wrote our names and peeled the name tags off the smooth backing, and we stuck them on our shirts. We strolled through the mown grass to the wooded area at the waterline where a path led us toward the lake.
A few yards into the walkway, James spoke. “Dad, get this off my leg.”
I looked down at his calf covered with pollen. “Just brush it off. You’ll be all right.”
“I can’t. It won’t come off.”
A closer look made my blood run cold. Ticks. Tiny ones by the dozens crawled up his bare leg. Lifting each boy, I retraced our steps to the registration shade as quickly as I could.
“We ran into some ticks. Do you have a first aid kit?”
“Yes, but we don’t have anything for those.”
“How about some stickers? Could we use a few of them?” I peeled off a label, immediately dabbing the sticky side against the tiny bloodsuckers on Ian’s leg while she did the same for James. Within minutes, we had the boys tick free, but it was already too late for me. By the time we got home, my ankles itched so badly, I had to call the doctor.
“Step on this trash bag, and get undressed,” Sandi said. “We’ll stick the clothes in the freezer along with your little visitors for a couple days, then I’ll wash them.”
I complied, but when the temperatures soared into the mid-nineties, my frozen clothes were almost irresistible. Almost.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.