Worms

They’re creepy and they’re kooky
Mysterious and spooky
They’re altogether ookey
The Addams Family

Their house is a museum
Where people come to see ’em
They really are a scream
The Addams Family

(The Addams Family theme song lyrics)


When I was a kid I thought I was the only one with an unusual father. All the other dads seemed normal compared to mine. An informal poll of my colleagues at work indicates that this is a universal sentiment.

My dad was usually unusual in a good way. Dad seemed to relish the rich memories of his own childhood back before the world became safe and civilized. In spite of my living in a city, on a freshly civilized continent, Dad made sure that I had ample opportunity to drown, fall off a cliff, drive the car, drive the boat, and shoot my eye out with a BB gun. These activities, and many others any adventurous young boy would yearn for, were experienced LONG before it was legal or proper to do so.

Dad seemed to have an unspoken philosophy that said, “I am different.” Doing the same activities other people did didn’t interest Dad. He wanted to do different things than other folks, or do the same things as other folks in different ways. Dad had a way of generating interesting experiences that made for great storytelling over lunch at school; that is if I wasn’t too embarrassed to tell them.

Jean also has a rich history of childhood experiences she looks back on fondly. It was therefore relatively easy to convince Jean to be my co-conspirator, and together we decided to raise our kids in an interesting environment. This is another one of those interesting environment stories.
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When John was in Cub Scouts (age 7-10) we went to a Scout Jamboree at the Gwinnett County Fairgrounds. The most memorable exhibit that day was “Composting with Worms”. John proudly brought home a Styrofoam cup filled with red wiggler worms and damp shredded newspaper. We were hooked on worms, so to speak.

Soon thereafter we graduated to an 8 gallon plastic Rubbermaid bin with a removable lid. We were forced to upgrade; the little boogers can climb up the walls and escape. Whodathunkit! All kinds of organic waste got dumped into the worm bin: celery, carrots, lettuce, egg shells, coffee filters, coffee grounds, and a regular supply of shredded newspapers went into the bin. The worms gobbled it all up and turned it into worm poop, properly known as castings. We called it compost.

We kept the worms in the dining room, right off the kitchen for easy access. All of our visitors were invited to see our “pets”. At the least encouragement we’d gladly pull the bin into the light of the kitchen, remove the lid, and dig our hands into what looked like black dirt, but was actually worm poop. “Notice how gross it looks, but also notice that it doesn’t smell at all! Put your face down here and give it a whiff. Want to hold one?” And then we’d dig some more looking for baby worms, which few people ever see.

People’s reactions were what we enjoyed most.
“You keep them in the house?”
“You keep them in the dining room?”
“Jean lets you do this?”
“You do this why?”

Some folks loved the worms, and others thought we were just plain nuts. Either reaction was fun.


We were different.