How A Gardener Deals With Terrorists
by Jeff Fox, class secretary for the Class of 1967

Terrorists attacked my wonderful land. They attacked with amoral precision. Beautiful structures of nature were devastated. Innocent living things were cruelly destroyed. I know what the terrorists are generally, but I don’t know who they are. I don’t know from where they come. I don’t care. I don’t know how to pronounce or spell their proper names. They all look pretty much the same. Some have what look like beards. Some have funny-looking costumes. They can be ferocious and scary looking, or exotic and fascinating. If they didn’t attack my land, I would rarely think about them. But they have attacked, and they are numerous, relentless, uncontrollably committed, and deadly. They fly and crash into and savage my lilies and roses and delphiniums. They crawl out of muck and sneak into my land, furtively biting the young tomatoes and cone flowers. Beetles are floral terrorists. They intend to destroy gardens-my flower nation-and they are impersonal about doing so. I don’t care about their motives, their hunger, their history, or anything else. I treat these terrorists the way each and every terrorist must be treated. I seek them, hunt them, ferret them out, and kill them. Only my first attack is a counterattack. After my first attack, I execute a proactive, planned, permanent war against the beetle terrorists. I raid their hideaways once a day, twice a day, every other day or week, or whenever. I attack and kill them in clusters or one at a time. I hunt them in very nook and cranny, in every shadow, under every rock, and into every hole they crawl. I do not stop even when every beetle is dead. I destroy their nests and webs. I put alluring, insidious, poison traps where they breed. I know that my flowers’ freedom to bloom, to grace God’s world, is dependent on my external and infernal vigilance.

In killing the terrorists, I try not to also kill my butterflies or ladybugs or bumblebees or daisies or zinnias. However, if innocents must die in my unwavering, unsubtle, overkill execution of terrorists, so be it.

I don’t care what anyone thinks about how I protect my land from terrorists. I don’t care how many I kill, as long as I kill every single one. I don’t care if I am responsible for the extinction of a species. I care not a whit. I don’t care how much treasure and effort I expend to kill them. If they come within attacking distance of my roses I spray them as they fly, and I leave them lying on the ground, unburied, as temporary rubbish, or as a carrion for other beetles.

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