I love to garden. I mean, I love to grow things, I don’t actually enjoy all the hard work. I might be the world’s laziest gardener. But I don’t mind getting dirty, and I adore looking at the little blossoms, watching everything turn all lush and delicious.
And I do like being environmentally responsible and so I recycle and compost. Once, I even bought some worms to have a worm bin.
The worm is a marvelous creature. It eats what is essentially garbage, and shits out this gorgeous, rich stuff that makes plants go wild. It’s like the Spanish Fly of gardening. Worm castings, it’s called.
So anyway, I ordered a shipment of these worms that you can put in a bin, toss in some damp newspapers, and put your food scraps in. Said worms will eat the whole smorgasbord of stuff and you’ll be left with the castings to toss on your garden. Fabulous.
However, I am not a good planner. I have little to no foresight, and rarely look at my calendar. Which doesn’t matter too much, since I also rarely write things in it.
So I ordered the worms – living, wriggling little creatures – and promptly went out of town for several days.
My neighbor offered to bring in my mail, which was wonderfully kind of her. I came home to find a neat stack of mail and one small package. Oddly, there were also small, dark brown squiggles all over my floor, which, on closer inspection, proved to be the bodies of dozens of dehydrated worms.
They made a break for it, and paid the ultimate price for their freedom.
Now, more than a year later, I still occasionally find a little brown squiggle stuck to my floor in some remote corner. I’m amazed at how far some of them made it. I had no idea worms could be so determined, especially since when your shit is worth its weight in gold, you are likely to have lived something of a privileged life.
So that’s my worm story, and the reason you should never send me a living creature in the mail. Just in case you were considering it, I mean.