To the deer ticks of Albany County
You’re going to hate the two pairs of pants and three shirts that I soaked with permethrin last weekend, in anticipation of the impending thaw. That’s only fair; I abhor you.
Because my childhood was not marked by your presence, my resentment runs deep. I spent those years in the Finger Lakes dreaming in the wild—pretending in shadowy woods to be Mary Jemison, Indian Captive. Or, in an open field, acting out Julie of the Wolves crossing tundra. Or, riding bikes side by side with my brother, laughing and showing off like the Dukes of Hazzard.
The past 18 years of living in New York City, visiting the Catskills and western Albany County on weekends and holidays, were also pretty dreamy. The arcadian record includes everything from chanterelles to ramps, from fireflies to falling stars, from kettling vultures to splashing beavers, from hayrides to creek swims. Now it’s all but ruined. Each time I step outside in temperatures above freezing, I ask myself if I’m prepared to fend you off, bloodthirsty suitor. Last year, when things turned ugly as predicted by acorn yields and mice polls, I ritualistically donned pants, socks, shoes and long sleeves heavily spritzed with lemon eucalyptus oil. I checked that the dog was current on his chemical treatments as though he were an item of camping gear. Before embarking, reminded spouse, child and visitor alike: avoid shin- to shoulder-height grasses in lawns and fields. Flick away anything of poppy seed size or description.
Because of you, our every outdoor move is now pre-meditated. Dewy morning dog walks ending in cavorting on green requires a security-level shakedown of both human and beast afterward. Weeding vegetables is no longer a barefooted chore. There’s lawn badminton, but no more ground-lolling observers. There are still rapturous baby visits, but no blanket picnics. Our binocular-peering bird walks are followed by an inverse of looking, with special consideration to hairlines, collar and cuff edges. Work planning with outdoor handymen or -women includes talk either of their recovery from or fear of spirochetes in the blood. The spontaneous thrill of waking up in mountain sunshine or fog, and the beckoning of outdoors—whether for work or for pleasure—has been pierced and deflated by your ubiquitous presence.
There’s also the issue of your relative invisibility. Your stealthy questing for blood from cellulose spires is unnerving. Stealthy, that is, until the horror of you begins, usually shortly after you’ve plunged all your face parts in anesthetized skin, or sometimes, just before, while you’re crawling on eight, or if younger, six, legs looking for a good spot in creases behind knees, blind spots on torsos and intimate areas. Backs of necks.
In the city, we knowingly co-habitate with invisible threats. Grime on the subway harbors armies of infectious bacteria; dangerous flu virus transmits with every cough, sneeze or handshake. Sidewalks bear unseen insults alongside visible obstacles. Air pollution surrounds. Open skies, tree canopies and dirt paths are exempt from the many hidden risks that permeate metropolises, or they’re supposed to be.
If you were rare as the bear, coyote or bobcat, I could overlook your pastoral crimes. Those top mammals still surprise, and yes, potentially threaten, but not like you. You’ve fundamentally marred the joys of nature with your pontillistic presence and parasitic punishments.
Last year on Easter weekend, when I had left the house only to cut forsythia for the table, you found me. And then I found you, two days later, while brushing my teeth before bed. My right hand still directing the bristles scrubbing my teeth, my left hand scratched what signaled “skin tag.” Funny, I thought, returning toothpaste to vanity, I don’t remember anything bumpy on my ribs. I lifted my shirt in the bright lighting to reveal a red-ringed, black pock. “Skin cancer!” my brain registered, then instantly revised in response to the undulating fringe on my “tumor.” Engorged as you were in a tissue afterward as I nicked your head to kill you, I almost wished you were microscopic. I’d gladly exchange lost-to-vision for what I now can’t un-see.
Seven more times after Easter you found me. Corpses accumulated in plastic baggies were sent for scientific scrutiny. Human blood was drawn for the laboratory more than once. I’m still healthy, but realize the cavalry’s not coming, not anytime soon, at least. Not in the form of vaccination against your infectious cohorts, nor managed prevention of your ongoing geographic spread and robust fertility. Our politically hamstrung public health and healthcare system virtually guarantees your Lilluputian sovereignty—for now.
Be forewarned. The libertarian approach stiffens against you. There’s now the annual permethrin cauldron to amend outdoor gear. There’s nightly pet combing. Diatomaceous earth is coming to the meadow to break your exoskeleton. Hungry guinea fowl may be moving to town. At last, doxycycline awaits in the medicine chest to shield the perils potentially unleashed in your bite.
The romance of this place is altered because of you. But make no mistake: you will not win. There will be no sulking indoors in the Hilltowns.
