Worms...

I remember being 5 or 6, on a warm summer New England morning humming with thirsty mosquitoes. My hero big brother was embarking on an adventure that had me mesmerized. Something so big I couldn't really even wrap my brain around it. He and his sidekick Peter were going to ride their bikes to a local pond, with fishing rods extended above and behind them like fun seeking antennas. And they were going without any grownups! I planned to be a part of it by surprising them with a can of worms.

My mother had a little triangular flower bed by the front door. She was a proud member of the local garden club and this year the ladies were planting theme gardens. Mother's plot was a patriotic vision of red geraniums, white petunias and blue ajuga, and I thought it to be clever beyond belief. It was there that I headed with one of her silver serving spoons and an empty Campbell's tomato soup can. I spooned up a little dirt and put it in the can, then dug until I saw the early light reflect on something. It was a worm, my quarry, disappearing into the dirt. Gleeful I dug deeper and snagged it with my grubby fingers. I tossed it into the soup can and dug further. I worried a bit about the certain fate of the worms, impaled on my brothers gleaming fish hook then sucked into a fish’s throat. But my desire to gain approval from my hero quashed my misgivings for the poor worms.

He found me there, the pebbles from the path biting my bony knees, swarms of blood sucking bugs exploring the tender scalp under my long blond hair. So driven was I on my quest that I ignored the pests and the tall bare-chested boy looming over me. I clutched the silver spoon in my right hand. In my left hand, each crescent moon of nail packed with topsoil, I held a wriggling mess of earth worms. The rapidly filling can was perched nearby under a clump of Iris. I just knew my brother would be so pleased with my efforts. Maybe one day he would let me go fishing, too. The still water of the pond would ripple when I cast my line, and I would catch the biggest fish, amazing the boys. My dream was interrupted by my brother’s voice, "Hey squirt. You got a skeeter on your cheek." I glanced up at him, and he pointed to a space just left of my sun burnt nose. As if it was attached to a string and he was the puppet master, my arm flew up and SLAP! I smashed the fistful of worms into my face. They were gritty and oddly warm, whether from the earth or my sweaty palm I don't know. The smushed worms flung dully in every direction. Several slid down between the fabric of my yellow cotton shirt and my flat chest and writhed there damply.
It was then that I cried. Tears hot as August pavement slid down my dirt-smeared cheeks. I roared in embarrassment and leapt to my bare feet. I thrust the worm jammed can into my laughing brother’s hands and ran faster than the wind towards the house. The screen door slammed hard behind me and I thundered down the hall to my room. Flinging myself belly down on top of the chenille bedspread I sobbed in anguish. The intentions of my invertebrate gift had been smashed as surely as those worms were. I sobbed until no more sobs would come, steaming with the embarrassment, shame and anger that only a person we dearly love can dish out.

My mattress sank and the bed frame creaked under the weight of someone sitting down. A hand as broad as a dinner plate rested on my back and began to gently rub, up and down, in circles, then up and down again. The warmth of it poured through my shirt and through my skin and into the muscles and nerves and sinews and the very blood coursing hot through my veins. My brother’s voice was soft and ripe with apology. "I'm sorry squirt. That wasn't funny."
I snuffled loudly, refusing to look at him. He kept rubbing my back. "I talked to Mom. She said you can go with us if you want." I sucked in a lungful of air and stopped breathing. Snot and tears smeared across the floral pillowcase as I turned incredulous blue eyes up at him. My voice croaked when I finally spoke, "Really?"

"Yup. Come on. Wash your face and hands and put some sneakers on. You can ride sissy."

I splashed and dashed, my red cap toed Ked's tied clumsily on my feet. My brother and Peter were already astride their glinting Schwinn's. The same big hands that had rubbed my back lifted me up and astride the metal tube that spanned from the seat to the front of the bike frame. Wobbling precariously I grasped the handle bars and wove my pipe stem legs together, out of reach of the pedals and biting bike chain. My heart thudded with excitement. I was going to ride with the big kids.

By the time we reached the end of the long driveway the bar of the bike was already cruelly bruising the tender space between my legs. I willed the discomfort away, reveled in the wind in my face and the feel of my brother’s arms on either side of me. I could smell fresh cut grass and pine and adolescent sweat. It was the smell of adventure and I was a part of it.