Worm By Worm
A deafening CRACK wakes me and I can’t move—something heavy is pushing me down and smothering me.
I rip off my terrycloth eye covering. Rain is pounding on the skylight above me.
Ruben’s body presses against my side. Téte is lying on my foot, trembling. Where’s Finnegan? I wonder.
The room lights up like a disco floor, and I can only count “One Mississippi, two—” between the flash and the bang.
It’s 3 a.m.
Dragging myself up over the heap of mammals, I sit on the edge of the bed as Finnegan pops out from under the covers.
Surrounded by clinging dogs, I make my way downstairs. Finn refuses to go outside to pee, so I grab my rain jacket to accompany him. Téte and Ruben want no part of the outdoors and stay in the mudroom, whining loudly over the rain.
The dogs stay close and press tightly against me like bookends, one on each leg, as I start the indoor morning chores, tending to the snails and birds.
At last I sit down with a cup of coffee, plug in my computer, and check the weather. Looks like we’re in for ongoing heavy storms with a break between 1:30 and 4 p.m. I’d best feed the critters now, and then wait until 1:30 to walk the dogs.
When 1:30 comes the sky is solid gray. Quickly, I snap leashes on the dogs and we start up the hill. They need their walk and so do I.
As the dogs tug me along, clumps of windblown leaves dot the road. The dogs pull toward one pile, then the next, thinking the piles, which weren’t here yesterday, are worth exploring. Some they mark.
Then I notice the wet road is full of struggling worms of all sizes. I can’t ignore their futile attempts to wiggle off the road. The distance between where they lie on the pavement and the safety of the grass at the edge of the road is the length of a football field to these cold-blooded beauties.
The skinny ones are the hardest to pick up. If I tickle them with my index finger they curl, giving me a way to gently grip their slippery bodies and carry them to the grass.
Curious about what I’m doing, the three dogs pounce around me. I tug their leashes and yell, “Back! Stay back!”
Worms can replace their damaged parts, so if they’re wiggling even a tiny bit and only part of them is smashed, I transport them to safety. I leave the dead ones on the road.
Worm by worm, the dogs and I walk, stoop, move up the hill. I worry we’ll never make it home before the skies unload their fury again.
The fable comes to mind about a child on the beach after a storm, tossing starfish back into the ocean. An adult says, “There are so many—you can’t possibly save them all. It doesn’t matter.” The child picks up another starfish, tosses it into the water, and says, “It matters to that one.”
We haven’t seen any cars yet as we reach the crest of the hill where Hwy SS intersects with Elk Run Road. Soon neighbors will be driving home from work and unknowingly crush these precious creatures that feed on plant debris, increase the nutrient value of our soil, and help provide a more stable soil structure.
Standing on Highway SS, I stretch and unkink my back.
The trip downhill is faster, as worms with any wiggle have been extracted already. I see a few I've missed, and I attempt to ignore them but can’t. This walk has become something more than just a walk, something complicated.
Then, with one big bang, our luck has run out. Instantly the rain slashes down and soon I am soaked to my bones.
As we half jog, half stumble down the hill, the rain is already gushing over spots in the road, carrying along the dead worms, leaves, small twig debris and, I hope, carrying to safety any live worms I hadn't gotten to yet.
After toweling off the dogs, peeling my wet clothes off, and putting the mess into a laundry basket, I’m glad there’s nowhere we needed to go today, nothing we had to do.
Our luck eventually ran out, but today was a lucky day for some neighborhood worms.