“Ooh, there’s a parcel in the mailbox. A long one. That’s a surprise, wonder what it is?”
I look up from the countertop, where I’m tearing up an eggbox into tiny bits while wondering how small they need to be, and say,
“Oh, that’ll be for me. I ordered it”.
“Aha - Internet shopping again - what you getting? Milled linseed? Squalane oil? Bamboo socks?”
I shake my head and grin.
“You know me far too well. But na - nothing like that. Want to see?”
I bring the parcel indoors. Hesitate.
“Maybe I should open this outside, on the garden table”.
“What the hell is it? Have you bought something - weird?”
(Wouldn’t be the first time, after all).
“No, it’s just that it’s a garden thing - might be better outdoors”
We stand over the garden table while I open the cardboard box extremely delicately, using a small fine knife. I don’t want to damage the precious contents. I’m still sort of surprised that this was even a thing you could order by post, and I’m hoping that it’s all safe and ok.
The cardboard comes off and reveals a ziplock plastic bag (wish it wasn’t plastic! gah!) full of writhing, pink and brown, all sizes - worms. With a little black soil around them.
“You bought worms? On the internet?”
We peer in at them.
“Yeah, I hope they’re ok. They seem ok. Feels really weird to think what they’ve been through - let’s get them out and free them, quickly”.
They’re all alive, albeit cramped up together. I open the composter and tip half of them in.
“Fill your boots!” I tell them, and they quickly burrow in.
“And the rest of them?”
“The new garden bed - it’s all topsoil. Thought I’d give it a head start with these lovely little beasties”.
The second half of the bag escape their plastic prison - with what I imagine must be relief - and nestle into the microclover that’s starting to sprout on the new clover lawn bed. I hope there’s enough food for them.
Who’s the luckier, I wonder - the ones who’re confined to the compost bin, but with tons of food; or the ones who have less immediate food, but full freedom to roam and move?
My ponderings about the existential problems of worms give way to the business of the day, until later, when one of the adult kids pops by. They find me in the garden peering into the compost.
“Is it ready yet?”
“Na. Takes so long and we’ve got so much of it, and so much garden to cover - I thought I’d try to speed things up a bit. I’ve bought some worms”.
“You bought worms? But what are you doing? Watching them? Talking to them?”
“Well, sort of. I feel bad about what they’ve been through. I want them to be ok. Do you think they’re cold? The compost doesnt feel very warm”.
A voice calls from inside the house -“Of course they’re not cold - the box said they came from Yorkshire!”
I realise I’m going to be a source of amusement yet again for the fam. Sure enough, a text pops up that afternoon from another of the adult kids.
“Heard about your new pets. Must come and meet them soon! 😂”
A day or two passes and the worm-jokes subside. I carry on checking in on the compost bin annelids, bringing them juicy bits of discarded raw veg, eggshells, torn-up cardboard. The clover bed ones have vanished from sight and I feel a pang, wondering if they’re all ok and how far down they’ve buried themselves. I continue to fret about whether the composter is cold, compared to the warmth underground.
On Friday, the phone pings with a message from Jaz to the ‘our mates’ group chat.
“Aurora Borealis visible tonight. 11pm. Cameras out!!!!”
This is great news. Firstly, because the Northern Lights aren’t all that common in Uk, so we do get very excited when they come by. Secondly, their scheduled appearance is usually something like 2 am, so fat chance I’ll ever see them.
As the evening turns into night, we sit and wait. Dinner, then crochet. Then a book. Got a good one on the e-reader and yes, of course it came from Substack. It’s only 10pm and my brain wants to stop now, though. So a bit of brain-rot TV to kill the last hour. A programme in Gaelic about wild swimming and woodfire outdoor saunas in the Hebrides. The only words I recognise are agus and uisge. Duolingo is truly shit. Mind you, Granny was from Ayrshire and never spoke a word of the Gaelic, just a broad Scots. Colonialism operated onshore as well as offshore.
Finally, it’s 11. We grab beanies, thick jackets; step outside.
K is looking up, chin pointed high and neck exposed to the light. The posture looks religious, like one of those mediaeval saints in the paintings. K is approaching some kind of spiritual high, for sure.
“My God. It’s really green. I mean, you can see it all, right? Like the photos, it actually does look like the photos. Better! Green and - yeah, look, bits of pink! This is so special. We’re lucky to see this”.
But I’m only half-listening. I’m looking down. At the clover bed.
A mass of worms are standing upright, stretching, leaning towards the lights, swaying together. They’re - they’re dancing, I realise. Dancing to the Northern Lights and to a music that humans can’t hear. They twist and bend, lean and stretch, moving with choreographed precision and grace. They curve and roll and I stoop to marvel, while K rattles on, oblivious, head yanked upwards by the same beautiful force that is drawing the worms, who perform their choreography to the pink and green that is enfolding us all.
I run to the compost bin, yank the door off, urgently tip the bin upside down and whisper,
“Go! Go and join the others! Quickly!”
I turn back towards the clover bed to watch the dance and wait for the finale.
I like your writing style. I too would like to know what the worms are up to—the show nearly as interesting as the one above. We got Northern Lights way down in Southern US earlier this year. Could barely see it with the naked eye, but easily visible through a phone camera.
Not sure how I missed this post! David Bellamy would be proud! As am I.