The Wifester never knew what a chigger was, that is until last weekend when we spent our wonderful weekend getaway in the cabin in the woods.
She's from Ohio where there's simply no such thing as a chigger. Queen Ann's lace grows rampant up there, and no one gets the joke about it being a "Chigger hotel."
When I asked all the Ohio relatives about chiggers, I got the deer-in-headlights stare, usually followed by "Chigger?" with a head tilt.
Finally, one aunt said "Oh, yeah, I heard a hunter talk about running into chiggers out on a hunt once, but I think he was in Kentucky..."
Yeah, I think the cold, cold winter prevents chiggers from making Ohio a home. Lucky them.
Wifester got her first, up close and personal meet and greet with the lovely mites, and is none too happy for it, I must say.
She's covered in red, itchy bumps and has a scowell across her face that would tarnish a cherub's mood.
"I HATE it here!" she protested last night, while scratching every inch of skin she could reach and simultaneously rubbing her back against the chair she was sitting in.
Poor Wifester. I've had my share of chigger bites. I grew up here, with a wooded back yard and camping and hiking my entire life.
That's why on our way to the cabin, I bought a can of Deep Woods Off, and I used it before we left the cabin, religiously.
Wifester opted not to use it, unsure of its effectiveness, or unagreeable with its odor, or just plain stubborn, I'm not sure which. Either way, she's the one covered in chigger bites, while I'm clean as a whistle. And that is why I say to my darling Wifester, "That's why god made Deep Woods Off"