I grew up on a 5-acre plot on the edge of town. Behind were wheat fields, in front was town. I had the best of both worlds. Vegetable garden, horses, rabbits, the occasional bottle-fed calf and soon-to-be-supper steer. (Stanley burgers were the best! Yes, I’m a carnivore!)
After getting married, we lived inside city limits in a nearby town. Blech. I wanted out. I wanted our kids out. We finally found the perfect place outside our very small hometown. Like 50 kids in my graduating class small…one stoplight small…one good place for dinner small–and it’s only open 3 days a week! And it’s barbecue. (Best BBQ anywhere!) Behind our property is the Corps of Engineers wildlife refuge. A hike through a forest of poison everything (ivy, oak, sumac) leads to a wide creek then the river.
Little did I know, we had moved into the wild kingdom. Our first discovery was a scorpion colony. My eight-year-old found it when moving some bricks.
Who did he yell for? Mom. That’s right. Mom to the rescue, work gloves and long tweezers in hand. While Dad and the boys watched, I picked up each brick, plucked a scorpion from it, and put it in the jar. There were 10! Right outside my back door!
We relocated them far from the house on corps land. In a nice, shady, rocky place. We dumped them and ran!
Live long and prosper, creeps.
Then I found a dead scorpion in the laundry room. I hoped and prayed that it came in on the bottom of my boot. For weeks, I opened that door like I was special ops surveying the room for hostiles. That must have scared any others away. Never saw one again.