The Loyalhanna Review

At 9:00 we headed out to our mission at the
Community Gardens. We had put on our huntergreen
Garden Guru shirts and our official yellow
nametags. If anyone questioned why we were in the
gardens at night, we would tell them we were hoping
to photograph the night-blooming cereus.
In my camera tote I also had several hazardouswaste
bags so we could clean up and destroy
the caustic residue from the egg cases. Once in
the garden, we put the kale next to the holes in
Christina’s plot. Then we sat down on the damp grass
behind the compost bins and waited.
Within half an hour we began hearing the
distinctive click and whirr of the adult beetle. Sitting
very still, we watched the three-foot-long insect
descend from a nearby maple tree and head straight
for the kale. Rose quietly moved to the tree, where she
would eliminate the nest, while I crawled in closer to
get a shot at the bug itself. We had to time our strikes
so that we hit them simultaneously. If either of us
failed, the vegathor would release a deadly vapor, and
Rose and I would vanish without a trace.
I established a clear shot through the tomato
plants and waited for Rose’s signal. Two hoots meant
she was in position; then we’d each slowly count to
three and fire. Finally I heard Rose’s throaty “ hoot,
hoot.” Now slowly, 1-2-3. Two bursts of light were all
that remained of the vegathor and its nest.
As the lights faded, Rose and I gathered all the
orange egg sacs into our waste bags and loaded them
in a special chamber built in the floor of my station
wagon. Back at my garden shed we hauled the bags
to the vaporization incinerator hidden in a rain barrel
along the side of the building. I flipped the switch.
Goodbye beetle eggs.
We watched the
three-foot-long insect
head straight
for the kale.
Global Warming
© by Candace Kubinec
I traded in my gas guzzler
for something compact and
efficient that can be plugged
in, with no room to
haul anything except a few
grocery bags.
I recycle and compost and
switched to biodegradable
everything.
I strung a rope between two
poles in the backyard and hung
my sheets and towels and dainties
to dry using wooden pins
— just like grandma.
I buy local and carry reusable
totes for my spinach and rutabagas.
But the cows, oh the cows,
with their placid bovine faces and
ambling gait, have done nothing to
reduce their carbon footprint.
They munch on grasses and then
with seeming innocence — with toots
and belches — expel methane.
I’m doing my part. So
you can just blame it on the cows.
The next morning I drove over to Christina’s
house to let her know Rose and I had discovered the
problem and eliminated it using the appropriate
“insecticide.” Christina was ecstatic and eager to
get back to gardening. She’d been confident that we
garden gurus would solve her problem. As I walked to
my car I smiled when I heard her mutter, “Hank told
me not to plant kale.” ♦
Candace Kubinec lives in Greensburg and is a
member of Ligonier Valley Writers. Her poems and
stories have appeared in The Loyalhanna Review,
Highland Park Poetry Muses’ Gallery, and the
Journal of Modern Poetry Peace Anthology.
The Loyalhanna Review 2015 19