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From the Mouths of Babes

We cant form our children on our own concepts; we must take them and love
them as God gives them to us.
Johann von Goethe
I dont like to think of myself as an executioner. I prefer to be called an
economic entomologist. My job is to kill insects and other creatures. Applying
pesticides may be the only activity less socially acceptable than chasing
ambulances. So I thought that showing my kids an authentic rangelandgrasshopper outbreak would help them make sense of my work.
Ethan struggled his way up into the cracked vinyl seat of the Chevy
pickup, his cheeks flushed and eyes wide in anticipation. Kindergarten had
been fine, but summer was better. Some 125 miles and 125 questions later, we
arrived in Guernsey, Wyoming, and stopped at Katies Diner for lunch. My job
was already impressive to himI got to drive a truck and eat lunch in a diner.
The screen door of Katies banged shut behind us. We climbed into the
truck and headed to Whalen Canyon, a two-thousand-acre tract of severely
infested rangeland a few miles north of town. Although early in July, it was
nearly 100 degrees, and the wind conspired with the heat to create the
equivalent of a convection oven. After a short walk in which we flushed waves
of grasshoppers from the boot-high bromegrass, I tried to explain my job.
Squatting on my haunches, a posture Ethan instantly mimicked, I
began, You see, pal, all of these grasshoppers are eating the grass. And the
rancher, Mr. Martin, needs the grass for his cows.
Ethan stared into the distance, either spellbound by my lecture or
imaging the frosty Coke that Id promised him when we got back to town.
Were trying to find a way to get rid of some of these grasshoppers. Were
testing a new chemical, a poison really, but it wont hurt the other animals as
much as what we use now.
Ethan poked at a grasshopper that was woozy from the heat and
desperately clinging to a stem of grass in hopes of avoiding the searing soil. I
went on, trying to show him that if I wasnt exactly a hero, neither was I a
villain. The grasshoppers are part of the prairie and we dont want to hurt
them, but were trying to live here too.
I finished with a story about the pioneers that passed just five miles east
of Whalen Canyon on the Oregon Trail, explaining how they had seeded this
region with the ranching families and how the locust plagues nearly drove
them from the land. Mr. Rogers could not have given a better accounting of
economic entomology. Confident that Ethan saw the honorable character of my
Jeffrey A. Lockwood. All Rights Reserved. Published by Skinner House Books

work, I stood up, a bit too fast. A wave of vertigo washed over me as Ethan
offered his analysis.
Dad? he began, oblivious to my condition.
Yes, I replied.
Werent they here first?
On the drive back to town, my rambling discourse touched on indigenous
people, native species, property rights, and why calling dibs did not establish
a moral position, but I have yet to really answer Ethans question. At least I
was forewarned when I took his sister to the field a couple of weeks later. That
was good because Erin was two years older and intellectually precocious. This
time Id introduce the principle of sharing to preempt the ethical questions.
By now, the rangeland grasses were baked to the color and consistency
of shredded wheat. As we picked the tiny spears that constitute bromegrass
seeds out of our socks, I delivered a brilliant lecture on Western agriculture,
being sure to discuss ways of fairly distributing resources between humans
and nature to ensure coexistence. Erin asked me how many different kinds of
grasshoppers there were in Wyoming (112 species) and how insecticides kill
(malathion and related compounds short-circuit the nervous system). She
seemed satisfied, even intrigued; I was delighted. After our Cokes in town, we
headed back to Laramie.
So, I said in an effort to summarize my work, you see that there just
isnt enough grass to feed both the grasshoppers and the cows. Sharing is
ideal, and we try to make it work whenever possible, but sometimes there just
isnt enough to go around. And this year we have to kill some of the
grasshoppers to be sure that the cattle have enough to eat. I looked down the
road, watching the heat rising like an undulating, liquid curtain over the
asphalt.
I see, she offered, with that quaver in her voice that I have since come
to recognize as being the equivalent of the deepening whistle associated with
falling bombs in war movies. And next year, she continued, will it be the
cows turn to get killed?
Taken from Grasshopper Dreaming: Reflections on Killing and Loving
Written by Jeffrey A. Lockwood.