Marsha Truman Cooper

As day began to break, we passed the “honk for worms” sign, passed it honking again and again, to wake up the worms my dad said. It was only about another half mile to the aspen grove and our worm digs. The humus, spongy and almost black, turned over easily. I used my bare hands to put some moist earth into a coffee can and, as the aspen glittered in the risen sun, I gently slid the fresh, fat bait into my container. I heard the worms still in the ground gurgle as they tried to escape, while the ones in the can began to ball up as their numbers grew. Streamside, surrounded by mountains with snow lingering into summer, I picked out a worm and my dad arranged it on the hook to save my small fingers. Now you can purchase a time-share on that land. The colony of aspen, thinned by the builders, continues to tremble. No amount of honking brings back the worms.

Your mother called it "doing the pressing," and you know now how right she was. There is something urgent here. Not even the hiss under each button or the yellow business ground in at the neck can make one instant of this work seem unimportant. You've been taught to turn the pocket corners and pick out the dark lint that collects there. You're tempted to leave it, but the old lessons go deeper than habits. Everyone else is asleep. The odor of sweat rises when you do under the armpits, the owner's particular smell you can never quite wash out. You'll stay up. You'll have your way, the final stroke and sharpness down the long sleeves, a truly permanent edge.