Call it the bane of a vivid imagination, but for years I was under the impression that an Old Testamenty kind of name, like, Zachariah, was required to contract Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. That since my primary mode of transportation didn’t have hooves, my britches suspenders or that I hadn’t gone bust in some misguided mining venture, posing for grim-faced tintypes as I pulled up stakes, I was reasonably immune to the disease. I figured the malady had fallen to the wayside somewhere around 1910, along with cookie dusters, and phrases such as ‘malady’ and ‘wayside’.
How wrong I was.
Beware the lowly tick, child. Beware.