Say it ain’t so, Sweetie.

SCORPION STRIKES AGAIN

Dear Baxter,

I’ve been meaning to send you a thank-you for the new book you sent at Christmas. We have it about half colored, ha, ha.

I had it on my list of things to do today but I didn’t get a chance. Charlie got stung by a scorpion, and he’s really having a tough time metabolizing the venom. I had to be the nurse while he went through the numb and tinglies, wobbly eyes, and slobbers. In any case, it wasn’t life threatening, just inconvenient.

We’d returned from church and lunch in town. Charlie took the Sunday paper and retired to the bathroom. I was in the laundry room when I heard a scream, really more like a duck call. When I went into the bathroom to see what was wrong, Charlie was crouched in front of the stool like an offensive lineman, trousers around his ankles, and wincing. Really wincing.

There was one teed off scorpion doing laps in the water. As near as we can tell, Mr. Scorpion had been on the back side of the couple squares of toilet paper that hung down from the roll. Charlie didn’t see it, and it didn’t see him until it was too late.

Since Charlie’s brother and father both swear by the idea of shocking a scorpion sting or snakebite, and tell of their personal experiences willingly, I offered to go get the cattle prod from the barn to see if it would help if we shocked him a good one.

Charlie said he didn’t care if it would restore baldness, induce labor, or cure bog spavin in horses, he would not stand still for Hot-Shot therapy. I then offered a kinder, gentler alternative. Since cold was supposed to help a sting, I would get him a bowl of ice cubes and a tong. He could place a cube on the sting with the tongs and clinch till it melted. He didn’t go for that, either.

Before the kids left for school the next morning, he made us promise not to tell anyone exactly where he was stung. I can tell you that it’s pretty hard, when asked that question, to keep a straight face and say, “In the bathroom.”

Anyway, he’s doing better, but he’s developed a morbid fear of Mr. Whipple.

Our best to your family and thanks again for the book.

—Sweetie