naming worms

article below was already posted at my original blog page, snowangel. i just thought of posting it here again. article was a originally taken from chicken soup for the soul.

really cute article, read on

x;)



Naming Worms
By Allison McWood

I think my dad wanted a son. Instead, he got three daughters. Seeing as how the son he anticipated was never forthcoming, Dad decided to improvise and I, being his youngest, won the privilege of being nurtured outdoors.

Being turned into a tomboy didn't bother me in the least. I loved putting on my plaid, flannel shirt and doing things outside with Dad, especially fishing. Whether we oared across a lake in a rowboat or hiked down a cliff with nothing more than a hook and some string, I could think of no better way for a dad and his little girl to spend the day.

I would marvel at how patient and focused Dad was when he fished. He would concentrate on his line for hours at a time. If he was any more calm, he would have slipped into a coma. This used to drive me bananas. Being seven years old, I craved more excitement. I imagined a huge fish, bigger than me, gulping down my bait and flapping ferociously in the water until I heroically hauled it into the rowboat. This never happened. Instead, I would spend my time watching Dad as he stared intently at his line. He never blinked, sometimes for the whole day. How could he be so patient?

One day Dad's patience was put to the test when my fascination shifted from the fish to the bait. While waiting for a nibble on my line, I peeked into the can of worms we had in the rowboat with us. I dug my little fingers into the moist soil and pulled a resisting worm from his burrow. I let him squirm (I decided it was a "he") across my hand. It tickled. I took another worm from the can. Then another. Then another. Soon, three or four worm heads popped out of the soil to see what all the commotion was about. I was in love.

I felt as though I had made a can-full of new friends that would keep me company during these long, uneventful fishing trips. Each worm was given a name according to his personality. When you are seven years old, worms have personalities. There was something endearing about my mucous-covered companions with no faces. I promised each of them that not one would be put on a hook and fed to the fish.

Then disaster struck. Dad pulled Hamilton out of the can. I gasped in horror as he attempted to manipulate his poor, writhing body onto a hook. There was a terrified look where Hamilton's face would have been, if he had a face.

"Daddy, No! Don't put Hamilton on the hook! He's my favorite!"

Dad raised an eyebrow. "You named the worm?" he asked in disbelief.

Exhaling and shaking his head, Dad pulled out another worm. It was Wigglesworth. He was the skittish one who was particularly worried about being used as bait. I had made a special promise to him and could not possibly allow the poor little guy to be hooked, for I was a woman of my word.

"That's Wigglesworth! Don't hurt him!"

Dad's frustration grew as he pulled more worms from the can. First Winthrop, the shy worm. Then Slimey, the friendly worm. And Marvin the show-off. Finally, Dad pulled out Maxwell, Sammy, O'Reilly, Buster and Doug. Dad groaned as I pleaded for him to not hurt my friends.

"Don't tell me you named all of the worms in this can."

With a sheepish nod, our fishing trip was suddenly over.

The next day, Dad drove into town and picked up a bucket of crawfish. When he brought them back to the cottage, I opened the lid and peeked in. I heard a despairing yelp emerge from his throat - I turned around to see him running frantically toward me, with his arms flailing and a look of terror on his face.

"No! You have to quit making friends with the bait!"