Worms. Just saying the word gives me the willies.
I was never an avid fisherman (fisherwoman, I should say) since the only time I can remember my daddy taking me fishing was at a little pond close to our house.
We were fishing for carp, and to my 8-year-old self, it seemed like we were there in the dusty red-dirt heat for HOURS. It was one of those places common in the South where you could pay to fish, and the person who catches the biggest fish wins a prize.
He made me put my own worm on the hook, and well, frankly, that squishy/crunchy sound was just disgusting. After what seemed like an eternity when I could be home with my fashion-plates art set or my Pound Puppies, I finally, FINALLY got a bite. The thrill of reeling it in made the nasty worm-touching almost worth it!
It was a little fish – probably no more than six inches long, but I got one! I was so excited! I jumped up and down and grabbed it, ready to toss my floppy prize into my bucket. Well, to my dismay and ultimate fury, I learned that at this particular pond, you were supposed to throw your fish back into the water after it was measured. WHAT?! Are you kidding me? All that time wasted for nothing! I was furious. Needless to say, fishing and the tools of the trade (i.e., worms) left a bad taste in my mouth, and I haven’t done it since.
The universe had other ideas, obviously, since I married a man who has lived to fish since his grandpa taught him how when he was a little boy. Now he spends his free time teaching our older two daughters how, and eventually our 2-year-old and our baby son will be out there on the lake with him, too.
I’m not sure if it’s their constant need for bait or what, but now, in a strange twist of fate, all three of my girls are fascinated with worms. Ugh.
Josie, who is 5, has an especially close relationship with these invertebrates. When it rains, she’s the first one outside to conduct rescue missions. She spares them from certain death in mud puddles. She picks them up between her thumb and finger and very carefully relocates them to higher ground.
She’s also very paranoid when she happens to find one out in the sun. “Get him in the shade, quick! Worms need moisture!”
Sadie doesn’t seem to care for worms on such a personal level, but she does collect them and put them into her little plastic beach pail for scientific purposes. Last week we read about worms and she used her captures to count their segments and figure out where their mouths and “tails” were. “Look, Mom! He pooped! Worm poop! Ugh! Worm poop is just dirt! Weird!”
Indeed.
Weird that my cute little princess-dress-wearing, flower-picking, fingernail-painting, fairy-wing-loving girly girls love worms.
Wormy, Squirmy, and Herman the Worman (from one of our favorite stories: “I’m Herman the Worman, and I like my squirmin’ and I like being close to the ground, boom boom!”), most of the specimens my girls catch have even been christened with names.
Adelaide, who isn’t even 3 yet, has now taken up the worm torch alongside her sisters. Each morning when she wakes up, she checks the weather out the kitchen window and says, “Can we wook for worms today? Under the wocks? Can we, Mommy?”
Maybe it’s the hunt – the mystery of finding out just what is out there under that big rock, or what’s under the surface of the water tugging on your line. Maybe it’s the gamble – the next shovelful of dirt will be the jackpot, or the next cast will land The Big One, I just know it!
Whatever it is, I personally don’t get the appeal.
Worms. Blech.
-From my May 22nd article on www.mentorpatch.com
