I hope you thanked your mom on Mother’s Day. That fearless woman who brought you into the world. After carting you about in her womb. Who raised you and made sure your shoes were tied and your teeth brushed. Who made sure you grew up to be respectable and responsible and, if nothing else, somewhat civilized. You use a napkin, right?
Because we all owe them that — a little thanks.
Did you kiss your momma last Sunday? Actually, I didn’t. If I tried to kiss mine, she would swat me on the head. It’s not her thing.
So instead we bought her worms. Nothing says, “I love you,” on Mother’s Day like a big bunch of earthworms. Actually, it was a card that said worms are coming.
From Uncle Jim’s Worm Farm in Pennsylvania. They haven’t arrived.
Yet, she was thrilled. It takes a special mom to get excited about a thing like that.
There’s been a crisis at my mother’s house recently. Every time she puts a shovel in the ground — and this happens often at her house, at all hours of the day and night — she comes back with empty dirt. No little slimy crawlers wiggling about. Heaven only knows why there aren’t any. She has her theories. I think it’s global worming.
Back in Tampa, her yard was filled with the buggers.
“If I had known this,” she said, “I would have brought some up with me.”
That was two years ago when she moved here. My brother and I loaded a U-Haul truck the size of Connecticut with every thing in the world — including enough chairs to seat a royal wedding. To this day, most of those chairs sit idly in the garage, waiting for a rush of tushes to give them a reason for being.
But she didn’t bring any worms — didn’t know she needed to! — and is now regretting it, two years later. They tell you a lot of things to check for when buying a house, but not the worms!
She called me the other day — at work — to ask if she could go to my house and take some from my yard. She said she would bring a shovel and just dig around until she found a few. I nixed the idea. My mother doesn’t “dig around.” She’s part gopher. I would have come home to a yard that looked like a World War I battlefield with deep trenches crisscrossing the land.
“Your yard doesn’t have worms either,” I picture her yelling from a trench as dirt flies feverishly over her shoulder. “I’ll have to try your brother’s house.”
Next she went to a bait shop. Because everyone knows when your yard needs worms, the bait shop is the next logical step. What must have been the looks on those poor bait purveyors when a woman in a straw hat walked in asking about worms for her yard?
They’ll be telling their grandchildren that story one day.
The bait shop couldn’t help her, and she was just about to give up and pour concrete everywhere.
That’s when my wife came up with the brilliant idea of ordering her worms. Thank you Uncle Jim’s. We ordered her 50 vermipods — little clay balls that form a cocoon for earthworm eggs. You toss them about your yard and soon they’re populating the grounds.
My mother was ecstatic. Who cares about flowers or chocolates or cards when you can get the gift of worms. And I’m thrilled.
Mother’s Day might be over, but it’s never too late to say thanks for everything, mom. And enjoy those worms.