Harvest of the Worm

I'm not a worm fan. I have handled worms, mind you, have considered having a worm farm in my house, and I have used worms to fish in the past. But I do not recall every fishing for bait. Meaning I don't remember ever digging up worms.

I respect worms and their role in life. It's a distant respect though. I like them in the ground, where they belong. Occasionally I am resigned to touch one if necessary to lour a fish. I do not, however, wish to navigate vast seas of them retreating slimily into the ground while I walk across my back yard.

My small town is not known for it's plethora of annual rainfall. Nonetheless there is an occasional bout of precipitation. I think this sends my dry-side minded worms into a state of delirium as they struggle topside in an effort to . . . breathe? Or what is it worms do above ground? Do they have lungs? Do they need to be in the air to absorb oxygen through their skin? And if this is in fact necessary, how do they survive underground, surrounded by close packed dirt? They are indeed a conundrum to me.

Despite my mild curiosity, I still almost gag at the sheer volume of the tubular intruders basking in my backyard during a good rainfall. Just tonight I went out to walk Lewis, and my stroll across the yard felt more like a tiptoe across a minefield as dozens of waterlogged worms retreated sub-level beneath my tread.

Not only this, but they climb my porch steps. How does a worm climb?! I have no idea. But in the morning, there they are, dry and abandoned on the concrete, a good three feet above the moistened soil they were trying to avoid.

So the bottom line is, I don't enjoy interacting with worms. Not grubs. Not nightcrawlers. Not maggoty things. No worms. Period. Fisherman of the world, please do visit my backyard and thin my wormy population. For this, I would be eternally grateful.