Journal of a Living Lady #110

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

          We have the most fertile three acres in Georgia. One Rhode Island Red hen is sitting on two of her own eggs, plus fifteen guinea eggs that Buddy and I snuck into her nest while she was out having a fling with the rooster.

 In addition, we have eight bronze turkey eggs in the incubator on the twenty-eight day count-down. I bought them from a farmer at the flea market. A few hours later I found a lone banty hen egg in our barn straw and stuck  in the incubator too. To visualize the contrast in egg size, imagine eight junior footballs and a half-size, smushed ping pong ball.

 I am always raising something: animals, flowers, vegetables, and even starter fluid for bread. You may be surprised to learn that I am also an old-time vermiculturist. In lay terms, that is  a worm farmer. Years ago I read this ad that said you could make a fortune raising fishing worms. Years ago I was also naïve and stupid. Anyway, I cajoled Buddy into digging me eight worm beds, each about ten feet long and two feet deep. Georgia red mud is not easy to dig, so it cost me a few back massages and a couple of banana puddings to get Buddy to finish the job.

            Together we hauled manure from a friend’s cow farm and mixed in all kinds of composting material.  After the beds were toiled and just right,  I ordered 10,000 red wiggler worms from the Market Bulletin.

Now there is an art to raising worms. You have to cover them at night, feed ‘um, water ‘um, monitor the temperature and even sing to them if you want them to be prolific. My favorite song was, “You got worms. I got worms. All God’s children got worms.”

            Rain does something to worms. It gives them wandering fever. One evening while Buddy and I were in town feeding our faces, it rained. Every single one of those wigglers packed their bags and ran. I was so disgusted. Those self-emancipated worms didn’t even have the courtesy to say good-bye. All that happened about twenty-five years ago.

            Just recently I got the urge to raise worms again, some non-profit worms. My sole purpose was to have a few earthworms handy so I could go fishing anytime day or night. That way, if I got the angling urge, there would be no need to wait until after daybreak for a bait store to open.

            I sent $15 plus postage to a worm farmer  in South Georgia for 5,000 giant breeding worms. Figured that would last this summer and maybe a few more if they didn’t discover the pill first. This time Buddy got me a number two wash tub to use for a worm bed. He also made me a sturdy wood and mesh screen cover so there would be no escaping.

            Uncle Sam delivered the worms. I didn’t sit and count every one, but it was hard for me to believe that there were 5,000 of those wigglers in the moist brown lunch bag that arrived inside a small cardboard box. It was difficult to get an exact count because the arriving worms were extremely insecure. They huddled together in a jumbled mass like the inside of a golf ball. The worms are now in the wash tub and the last time I looked, they seemed content.

            It seems that word has spread about our growing zoo. Buddy kept telling me we had at least three new roosters. I didn’t take him seriously until I heard more than one crowing early in the morning. This rooster opera stirred my curiosity. After breakfast I called all the chickens to muster. Sure enough, somebody had added three  roosters to our menagerie.

            As I said, we have the most fertile three acres in Georgia.

 

++++++++++++++++++

April 25, 2001