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I must say this: we love our house. When I first walked in, on our first tour, my body did a little zing! jig inside. I loved the sloping floors, the year 1890 stamped on its birth date, the swing of a path on the first floor, the front porch, the sandbox I knew we would later convert into a garden.

And like any homeowner, we have many goals for this home: to replace the cheap carpeting downstairs with hardwood, to build a sturdier fence, to redo the basement, and pipe dreams like building a third bedroom upstairs where the attic storage space is. There are smaller goals too, like installing a garbage disposal, a little suck and grind for our food waste.

And I am lazy on a myriad of levels: I allow the build up of dust on my bookshelves, the collection of magazines to read grow, the dogs to loll about and leave fur deposits all over the living room carpet. I am good at ignoring, and I am good at avoiding. I didn't want to zap myself as I installed something remotely mechanical or plumbing-like, and my husband wasn't enticed by the idea either.

So I began a compost heap: a cheap one, though now I covet the tumblers--I do so love the lump that began as a pile of dried flowers and cantaloupe rind. A colorful collection that eventually boasted egg shells, toilet paper tubing, and all kinds of stems leftover from our CSA. It's all rotting now, just next to our raspberry bush, and I love it.

This morning I ordered five hundred red worms. I told my husband we couldn't get a third dog, but we now have five hundred little creatures coming to live with us; he has Chris to thank for it. Last night was book club at her St Paul apartment, and among the various delights of her sweet bird, her lineup of mint and clover, her lion ants, was the plastic box of worm poo. Indeed, mixed in with browned banana peels and coffee grounds were little red worms, sifting through and creating wet earth, perfect for her garden plot. I envied her her worms.