VERMICULTURE VOWS
The last laugh.
Finding treasure among
the wreckage.
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by Sally Sheklow
I bring all of this up because I finally harvested my worm
bin. Talk about a dichotomy of hope and despair. It all
started last summer when I took home my blue plastic box
with its white smiley cartoon worm saying "Feed me garbage"
painted on the side. I envisioned myself soon scooping out
copious mounds of dark rich worm castings, just like the
stuff garden stores sell for $13.99 a bag. Tie some up with
a colorful ribbon and - presto - no more holiday gift
worries.
I did my best, initially, to follow the vermiculture creed,
feeding my red wigglers measured portions of their favorite
kitchen scraps and layering in just the right amount of
carefully torn soy-ink newspaper strips for bedding. I
dutifully mist-moistened the paper with filtered water and
shielded the worm bin from harsh sunlight. This mandated
wormfeeding regimen was tougher than Weight Watchers.
Predictably, after weeks of strictly restrained input and
meticulous record keeping, my discipline gave way. I fed
more than the prescribed amount of wilted greens. I gave my
worms a whole spoiled cantaloupe. Instead of walking my
sinkside scrap tub out to the compost heap, I dumped it all
into the vermiculture bin, wantonly disregarding the
instructions to sort out citrus rinds, avocado pits and
onions. I essentially put the worms on a binge diet.
Apparently vermiculture is a more exacting science.
