VERMICULTURE VOWS
(Page 2 of 2)
Months past schedule, on a damp, gray day, I carried the
bin outside to collect my hard-won worm castings. Eager to
run my fingers through the promised loot, I spread out
newspaper and overturned the contents. My heart sank.
Dashed were my visions of abundant sweet dark castings.
Clearly, there would be no gift bags of "gardener's gold"
for the holidays. To my dis may, out poured a slimy mass of
rotting food and pale wads of decomposing worms. In that
instant, I believe I discovered what is meant by the stench
of death.
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When the air cleared, I pulled up my portable gardening
bench and took a closer look. Gently spreading the goop
with my trowel, I started searching for survivors. Like a
rescuer patrolling the icy waters where the
Titanic sank, I watched carefully for any movement
and began lifting near-lifeless bodies from the wreckage.
Here a wiggle, there a squirm. As each little clinger to
worm life made itself noticed, I hoisted it up to safety. I
tenderly placed the barely living on a soft dry bed of
shredded newspaper. I muttered my solemn promise to all
wormkind that from that day forward I would faithfully obey
the hallowed rules of vermiculture.
I must have looked absolutely pitiful sitting there in the
cold, tearfully salvaging worm life, because my noble mate
gave up the coziness of our sofa to come outside and
console me with sweetness. There it was - my reason to
treasure even that difficult day.
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