The Day the Worms Moved In

Worms! You’re going to raise worms in the garage?”

“Yes, Maddie.” Mom nods and asks me to pass the Parmesan cheese.

“Cool,” says my 6-year-old brother, Avery, his face smeared with spaghetti sauce.

Cool is not the word I would use.

Some people have a fear of flying or freak out at the sight of blood. With me, seeing even a single worm makes me . . . well, imagine being in the path of an oncoming train. That’s the feeling I get when I see a worm. Total panic.

I blame Billy Peppercorn. In kindergarten, he told me to hold out my hands and close my eyes. I knew Billy liked me. So I did as he said, expecting something truly wonderful. Into my hands he plopped his prized possession: a 9-inch night crawler named Buddy that he had been keeping for months in a dirt-filled jar. I screamed and threw Buddy high in the air. Where he landed nobody knows, though Billy spent an hour crying and looking for him. In the end, Billy decided to find someone else to like, and I ended up with a severe worm phobia.

Which is a shame, because Billy Peppercorn is now in my fifth-grade class, and he turned out really cute.

My worm phobia is a secret. You know how kids and brothers are. Once they find out your weakness, you’re done for. So I’m not about to mention it now.

I look over at Dad, hoping he’ll do something, but he just calmly takes a bite of garlic bread.

“I’m going to use the worms in a composting bin,” Mom says. “They’ll eat leftovers, leave castings, and create lovely garden soil for me.”

“What are castings?” asks Avery.

“Worm poop,” Mom answers.

I can’t believe my mom is talking about worm poop at the dinner table.

“Will there be enough room in the garage for my car?” my brother Carter asks.

Carter is 16, and his car is rusty and dented, but it’s his prized possession. Sort of like Buddy was to Billy Peppercorn.

“The bin won’t take up much space. Your car will be fine,” Mom says.

I stare at my spaghetti noodles tinged pink with tomato sauce. They look like worms.

I feel sick.

The worms arrived three days ago—all 1,500 of them. Who knew you could order earthworms online and have them delivered right to your door? When Mom opened the box, she held up a few, cooed to them, and called them beauties. Beauties? My heart jumped out of my chest and fled the room. I quickly followed. 

For several days, the worm-filled box stayed in the living room while Mom prepared their new home. I almost died. But Mom explained that she couldn’t just dump them in the composting bin. First, she had to make bedding for them by combining newspaper, soil, manure, and peat moss. Then, she had to wait a few days to make sure the bacteria in the mixture didn’t heat things up too much. Temperatures above 85 degrees can kill worms.

We don’t have a dog or a cat, but by the way Mom’s been fussing and worrying over the worms, you’d think they were our pets! Weird.

Right now, she is all excited and fluttering around the breakfast table because we’ll be using the composting bin for the first time.

The entire family marches out to the garage. The composting bin consists of a wooden frame with a hinged mesh lid. There are tiny holes drilled in the bottom and sides for drainage and air. The bin sits atop two sawhorses.  

Mom lifts the lid. “Bon appétit!” she says, as if the worms can hear and understand her.

Everyone clusters around the bin, tipping cereal bowls so the leftovers spill out. I turn my head away, knowing I’d faint if I caught even a glimpse of pink in the dirt.

Once the lid is safely closed, I notice a couple of bales of straw against the garage wall.

“What’s with that?” I point my spoon.

“It’s for the winter,” Mom says. “Eventually, I’m going to use the straw to protect the worms from the cold.”

Worms sure are delicate, I think. Can’t be too hot. Can’t be too cold.

My mind turns to trickery. A heating pad shoved into the worm bedding. Or ice cubes. Ice cubes would be better, I decide. The evidence would melt, and I’d be in the clear.

Except for one problem.

There’s no way I’d be able to stick my hand in that bin to shove anything down. Dribbling food from a foot above is bad enough.

You’d think that after two months I’d get used to the idea of worms in the garage. But I’m still creeped out. Most of the time, I manage to finish every sliver of food on my plate, just so I can avoid being in the presence of that bin. The worms are always on my mind anyway, though. My bedroom is above the garage, and sometimes I lie awake in the middle of the night worried that the floor will collapse and I’ll fall into oodles of worms. Or out of the blue, I’ll feel slimy and gross for no reason at all. Sharing my home with those things is a living nightmare!

It’s a Saturday morning, and Mom is out of town visiting my aunt. Dad woke up early to take Avery to an indoor soccer tournament. Carter is still sleeping, and I’m eating breakfast. I look out the kitchen window and see a light dusting of first snow. Two days ago it was in the 60s! Midwest weather. Go figure.

I have a few tidbits of toast I am unable to finish. I consider putting what’s left down the garbage disposal, but thinking about Mom makes me feel guilty, so I go ahead and brave the garage. If I don’t actually see the worms, I can handle it. Sort of.

I open the door, and it takes a moment to fully comprehend what is before me: hundreds of worms writhing around under the composting bin and across the floor.  

I scream a top-of-my-lungs scream, hoping Carter will come to rescue me. I continue screaming until I realize Carter isn’t coming. I also realize some of the worms are no longer wiggling.

They’re dead.

I watch helplessly as worms drop from the holes at the bottom of the bin onto the floor below

Maybe I should close the door and not tell anyone. Maybe the worms will all die. But what if most of them don’t? What if they find their way inside? To wherever I am? Like in some kind of horror movie?

I tear upstairs to Carter’s room and shake him. “The worms escaped!”

“What?” he says, yawning.

“There are worms all over the garage floor! What are we going to do?” 

“How am I supposed to know? Call Mom on her cell phone.” Carter covers his head with his blanket.

I tumble downstairs and call Mom. “The worms! They’re dropping onto the floor,” I yell into the phone.

Mom sounds upset. She explains that when it turns cold, worms burrow into the ground to find warmth. Since these guys weren’t in the ground, they burrowed themselves right out of the drainage holes in the bottom of the bin. She didn’t think it would get that cold overnight. 

“You have to act fast,” she says. “Round up the worms that are still alive and put them back in the bin. Take the bin off the sawhorses and move it closer to the ground. Prop it up on a few bricks—there are some near Dad’s workbench. Once straw is placed on top of the bin and around it, the worms should be better protected from the cold. Hurry!”

I scramble back out to the garage, flip open the lid to the bin, and take a deep breath. Kneeling down, I begin pushing the worms into a pile. I cradle about 15 between my hands and carry them back to their home. I try not to think about how cold and disgusting they feel. I avoid looking down, fearful I’ll toss them into the air in a fit of fright, and carry pile after pile to the bin. When the floor is finally clear, I scurry upstairs to wake Carter. “Mom says we have to move the bin. Now!”

He stumbles sleepily down the stairs after me.

Carter and I move the bin to the ground, shaking straw around it. I round up a few more worms, take a deep breath, and study the floor. Estimated death toll: about 30 worms. Not enough to put a kink in Mom’s composting plans, which should make her happy. 

I go into the house and scrub my hands, using hot water and plenty of soap. I feel good about saving the worms.

Billy Peppercorn would be proud of me, I’m sure.

Actually, I’m pretty proud of myself. I faced my fear. And I survived.