Pickin' Worms

A Pastime for River Rats

Pickin’ worms was a way of life. A pastime. A calling, for some. Pickin’ worms was a necessity. A good way to spend your time. A fix for boredom on a rainy day. A way to make a few bucks. A way to save a few bucks. Pickin’ worms was what we did when we had nothing left to do. When the lunch was had, the bikes worn out, the boat gas gone, and the beach plum out of rocks to skip. But mostly, pickin’ worms was what we did when we meant to go fishing.

A recent reread of The Old Man and The Boy brought me back, as it always does, to the richest memories of a North Country childhood. To hearty meals at hunting camp, the shepherd’s pie and the stew. The bread and butter. To the ice shacks on Chippewa and Wheathouse Bay. To the free-at-last feeling of spring, the one you get on that very first bike ride when it’s still too wet but you go anyway, and ruin the clothes your mother told you not to ruin. It brought me back to summers on the river. Back to pickin’ worms.

You see, I’m what they call a River Rat. I’m sure this moniker is used elsewhere, but in the North Country it’s a well-worn title for folks who grew up on the St. Lawrence River. Some live there year-round, but most River Rats have a little summer place. A camp. Our camp is on the edge of a farm field at the end of a dirt road off the highway. It sits on the edge of the nation, looking out at Canada across our mighty river.

River Rat is not derogatory, but a point of pride. We love that river. We’re proud to spend our time staring out at its beauty, drinking coffee or cold beer beside it, cooling ourselves in its wake, and reaping all the benefits it offers, whether they be ducks or sunsets or smiles. Or fish.

Not all River Rats fish, but most. Some of us fished every day, all summer, all our lives. Those of us lucky enough to have had that education can say with great veracity that we know a thing or two about bait. Bait is a common subject in The Old Man and The Boy. The old man would often have the boy catch a mess of bait before a fishing trip. For them, this meant smaller fish to be used like we River Rats would use a shiner minnow or a ground pike. For us, it meant worms. Nightcrawlers. The good stuff. The good Lord’s gift to hungry fish and hungrier fishermen. We bought worms and sold worms. But mostly, we picked worms.

I remember pickin’ worms at the house on Elizabeth Street. The little space between our house and the neighbor’s was good, and the dirt along the edge of the foundation, and the first few inches under the shed all the way around it, and the messy patch of lawn alongside Dan Cordick’s fence.

I remember pickin’ worms at camp, too. We had all sorts of good spots. Beside the porch and under the porch and over by the field edge and along the mud puddles and all over. But the best spot of all was on what we call “the hill,” just behind Jimmy’s camp. This was where you went when this worm pickin’ chore was of real importance. There, you could fill a Folgers can in a few minutes if you had four hands at work. Plus, if Jimmy was there you’d get more worms anyway, and faster. Jimmy could pick worms faster than anyone. He never broke them, and rarely missed them altogether. Someday, I’ll tell you more about my old pal Jim. For now, just know that when he set out to pick worms, he meant business.

Most of this worm pickin’ was just as it sounds. You take a small bucket or a coffee can or a coffee cup, add a little dirt, and go to filling it full of hand-picked nightcrawlers. You do this just after dark with a flashlight or after a good rain.

Only once in my life was I ever involved in any sort of industrial operation, and I’ll never forget it. One hot, dry summer day my friend Chris and I got wrangled into helping his grandfather pick worms. “No problem! I’ve got experience and references.” But I came to learn they had no intention of setting us boys afield with a coffee can and our God-given worm pickers. No, Sir. They had a plan.

We drove to a vacant lot which was really more of a side-yard at a house in town. Chris and I helped his grandfather spread a giant tarp on the ground, then we stuck a hose underneath it and turned on the water. A while later, when the ground was good and saturated, we were put to work. The tarp was pulled and the worms were brought to light. We picked and picked and picked until we had more nightcrawlers than I’d ever seen. Then, we went fishing.

At some point in life, worms seemed to become less important in fishing. A little later, fishing seemed to become less important in life. Nightcrawlers were replaced with store-bought gizmos and rubber worms, and fishing was replaced with working and other nonsense.

It’s been a long time since I picked worms. Too long, I’m ashamed to admit. I suppose I ought to brush up, as worms still need pickin’, fish still need catchin’, and before long I’ll be an old man and a boy will need learning on how to be a River Rat.