Worm Farm Disaster

Worm Club: A Tragic Tale of Dreams, Toxic Dirt, and DIY Disaster

When I was in 5th grade, I started a Worm Club. Yes, really. I somehow convinced three other kids that it would be fun and cool to form a club dedicated solely to the noble worm. We had one mission: if we saw a worm stranded on the hot pavement, it was our solemn duty to gently escort it back to the safety of the grass. That was it. That was the whole club. Oh, and we’d swing on the rope swing in my backyard once a week during our "meetings". Spoiler alert: we were neither fun nor cool.

I’m not sure where my worm obsession came from, but it clearly followed me into adulthood because I was thrilled when the time finally came to start a worm farm of my own. (Still not cool, in case you're wondering.)

I’d been dreaming about this for years! It was going to be the perfect way to generate organic fertilizer for our new veggie garden. I had visions of sprinkling “black gold” (worm castings, for the uninitiated) over my tomatoes like some kind of uppity compost guru. I was going to brew up rich, potent worm tea. I even daydreamed about turning this into a business. I had a name and a logo ready to go. Yes, I really did that.

I was prepared. I had my giant Rubbermaid tote with air holes drilled around the top: check. Shredded newspaper bedding (but none of the glossy junk mail stuff): check. And the pièce de résistance—1,000 red wigglers from Uncle Jim’s Worm Farm, en route via Amazon.

The day they arrived, I lovingly opened the burlap bag, and carefully followed the instructions Uncle Jim had sent with the worms. I gently placed them into their new home and misted their cozy paper nest with water. I added several banana slices for them to eat and gain strength. All was well—the worms happily burrowed down away from the light, and I felt like a proud worm mom. Soon they’d settle in, start munching, pooping, reproducing... and before long, I’d be absolutely swimming in worm feces and life would be fabulous!

Worm-nerd then, worm-nerd now

But... they weren’t eating.

Hmm. That wasn’t in the plan.

After some (clearly flawed) reasoning, I decided the newspaper bedding must be the issue. Worms don’t naturally live in shredded paper. They live in soil! Duh! That was the problem.

Luckily, I had a flower pot full of dirt from a recently deceased houseplant. I dumped it into the worm bin, spread it around, and congratulated myself for solving the issue. “You’re welcome, little buddies,” I whispered. “Mommy loves you.”

The next morning, I found dozens of worms on the garage floor around their bin.

Horrified, I sprang into action. My old Worm Club instincts kicked in—I gently scooped them up and tucked them back into their cozy little home. “There, there. All better.”

The next morning? Same thing.

And the next? Yep. More worm evacuation.

What was going on? These little guys were hauling their squishy bodies up the sides of the Rubbermaid tote, squeezing through the air holes, and flinging themselves onto the floor like they were trying to escape a burning building.

Oh no. OH NO.

Suddenly it clicked. The soil I had lovingly gifted them—the one from my dead houseplant—was full of fertilizer. The chemical kind. The “will kill your worm family slowly and painfully” kind. They weren’t escaping. They were fleeing. The soil was literally burning them alive, and I, their well-meaning but clueless caregiver, had been lovingly scooping them back into the torture chamber.

Devastated doesn’t even begin to cover it. If Worm Club had badges, mine would have been revoked forever.

I haven't been able to bring myself to try again for the sheer shame of it.

Rest in peace, little buddies. I’m so, so sorry. You deserved better.

And Uncle Jim? I'm so sorry I thought I knew better than you. My arrogance killed thousands.