They eat everything I give them. How do those little red wrigglers do it? What the heck does their digestive system look like, anyway, all knives and sharp edges? Maybe a rotary blade tucked in somewhere? Okay, so they don’t like the thin papery garlic skin or the layers of onion skins. And they pass up orange and grapefruit rinds. But the tough center of the cabbage? Gone. The stout carrot end? Disappeared. Eggshells? Finished. Celery stalk? Pineapple rind? Eyes of a potato? History. Green pepper seeds, banana peels, butternut squash stalks? Chewed up and spit out. The garden fork is my compass. I move it 90 degrees clockwise every few days, indicating where I last buried their treasure. Too bad I don’t fish.
So Carmela comes home with what looks to be a really cool, local book: “Santa is coming to Savannah.” It mentions the Juliette Gordon Low House, Forsyth Park, fat chimneys in Ardsley Park, River Street, Vernonburg and Garden City. Beautiful illustrations. Reindeer in the sky. A fetching Santa. Then I got suspicious and looked at the title page. Then I googled the author. Get the stretcher! (a Sandy West term). It’s a prototype. He’s got books from Kentucky, Illinois, Indiana, Pennsylvania, well, you name it. Same illustrations, different locations. Local my foot!