Mothers hate ticks. At least mine did. I seemed to be the first child infested on our West Tennessee farm each year. The finding of a tick would summon my mother from anywhere in the house while my older brother vied for an unobstructed view of the torture, an event for him of unequaled pleasure. My father would remain calm in his recliner, only to enter the treatment plan if a large animal was found to be attached. By the time my tick was discovered, it had been hunkered down for a day or two, maybe longer. My mother’s method for tick extraction changed dramatically during my childhood.