The Writer and the Worms

My mother gets ruffled when I post pictures like this to my Twitter, which I took of a note that was on our kitchen counter when I was home for Christmas:



It reads: "I went to get some worms. L, G"

It's a note from my step dad, Greg, who, at any given time, is involved in and/or embarking on a handful of household projects and repairs.* So, when I read this note I couldn't help but snicker at how funny it was because it was so matter of fact; like, there was no explanation needed. Mom walks into the kitchen, picks up the note: "Oh, Greg went to get some worms. Ok. I'm going to make a sandwich." In the microcosm of my parent's house going to get some worms is entirely normal.

Of course to them it was normal because it was within their context. As I said, I laughed at it and Tweeted it, which then posted to my Facebook where my mom saw it. She was all "They were for my compost! You didn't say they were for my compost! Greg doesn't just buy worms. They were for my compost!" Ok, mother, I now know they are for your compost. I guess she was worried that my friends were going to see the post and make some sort of judgment as to why we Arkansans might need worms. The assumption, I assume, would be for fishing, which, while relatively southern and possibly backwood to some people, seems harmless and even charming, no?

But, I see where the worry might come from. And if I'm being honest, I was counting on some raised eyebrows and maybe a few chuckles laced with the subtext of "Yeah, that's kind of weird." It wasn't to lambaste my family, though. I explained to my mother that, as a writer (one who especially fancies David Sedaris, though who doesn't?), your family has to understand that they are at your disposal. Their quirks, idiosyncrasies, and vulnerabilities are at your whim, but not in any sort of vindictive way. It's just that, for me, I come from a big, crazy, loud, emotional and totally awesome family. And there are so many tales worth telling from the 27 years I've been a part of it I can't even begin to try and chronicle all of it.* So, when I post a picture of a note from my step dad alerting my mother that he went to get worms, I take a small amount of creative liberty to illuminate a small and, yes, decontextualized example of the kinds of endearing crotchets you'll come across if you somehow get thrown into Plattner pandemonium. It could be worms; it could be a rousing and intense game of Scrabble; it could be an epic screaming match; it could be an impromptu dance party in the living room.

Nevertheless, because I love my mother and because she doesn't need any more distress in her life than she already has, I commented on my own picture noting that the worms were, in fact, for a compost pile. It seemed to diminish the luster of mystery surrounding Greg's Oligochaetal hunt, but then I started thinking about the fact that it was for a compost pile. A compost pile? Mom composts now? What's that all about? Who knows, but maybe I'll write about it one day.

Seth


*As my brothers and I were reared in such a DYI environment we were invariably tasked, much to our adolescent chagrin, with helping Greg with whatever whimsical chore he had on his ever growing list of things to do—picking up rocks, clearing brush, chopping limbs, repairing a birdhouse, planting flowers, picking up rocks, stacking wood, weed whacking, staining furniture, picking up rocks...building a deck. And while at the time it totally cramped our Fort-Smith-Arkansas cool, I'm grateful Greg staved off our attitude, because it's actually kind of prideful, especially as a gay man, to know that if I needed to build, say, a small shed in which to store, uh, tools (which I know how to use) I could totally do it.

*Though one day I will, and it's going to make an amazing book or short story collection or script or whatever.