It’s been a tad soggy around here
lately. If the old ‘April Showers’
adage holds true, we may need kayaks to navigate May’s floral output.
One sure sign of excess precipitation
is the exodus of worms across my driveway. Like a slow-motion version of the Oklahoma Land Rush,
waterlogged wigglers slithered by last week, hoping to find dry ground. Before I spotted this slimy phenomenon,
I smelled it. One step out the
door and my sniffer caught the unmistakable whiff of moist invertebrate. It’s the smell of rain with sweaty
overtones. I must’ve spent too
many hours in the sun growing up, because I find this wormy aroma a strangely pleasant
sign of spring.
The worms, I’m sure, find it less so. First of all, worms don’t have noses, so
they probably can’t pick up the same whiff I’m sniffing. But if they could, there’s no doubt:
they would associate it with terror.
Before arriving on my driveway, they very nearly drowned in underground
tunnels. The only shelter they
could find was this large expanse of unprotected concrete, a blank canvas
announcing their predicament to Robins with all the subtlety of flashing
neon. And now I was preparing to
drive a two-ton vehicle across it.
Not their best day. I did
avoid stepping on them, but navigating the Honda around them? Not possible. I can only hope the end came swiftly for the unlucky ones. Vehicular death might actually be
preferred to the environmental dangers the remnant faced. A worm exposed to sunlight for more than an hour will become
paralyzed. If their slimy skin
dries out, they’re toast (literally).
We’ve all seen the roasted remnants of sunburnt worms. Seems like a slow, painful way to
go.
Worms have a tough life from the
get-go. They are essentially blind
quadriplegics. They have no eyes,
arms or legs. But what they lack
in appendages, they make up for in stomach, and they don’t let their
limitations hamper their appetite.
Worms can eat the equivalent of their weight each day. The dream of feasting unhindered, whilst
maintaining a slender form, is one I share with countless women. But if we were forced to choose between
the lifestyle of a worm and our own, I’m sure we’d all be willing to submit to a
little dietary restraint.
The worm’s day consists of chewing
moldy, muddy morsels and slithering up and down through a dank dominion of darkness. There is no light, no music, no Facebook,
no Starbucks caramel macchiatos. They
can’t even stop to smell the roses.
There is only the business of tunneling and eating. In the process of satiating their hunger,
they set the stage for gardening magic above ground.
As food percolates through a worm’s
digestive track, it magically transforms into a plant smorgasbord of nitrogen,
phosphorus, potassium and magnesium.
Even the slime they secrete contains nitrogen. A worm’s excavations create passages that allow air and
water to penetrate heavy soil.
This increases water-retention, which is essential for droughts and
forgetful waterers, such as myself.
It also improves drainage, which prevents excess water from overwhelming
sensitive roots.
An acre of land can support up to a
million earthworms. This means my
humble plot of ground could potentially have over 300,000 miniature excavators
rumbling through the dirt, digging fertilizer-laced tunnels. So, thanks to these wormy workhorses, thirsty
roots can now stretch out into loose, moist, fertile ground, and begin shooting
beauty above grade. All that hard
work pays off for this gardener, whose contribution - at most - was not to step
on them in their time of need. Small
thanks indeed.
