Round-Up
During the last month, I’ve been sampling random chapters
of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie. My studio mate,
photographer Linda Gammell, has the book here in our studio as she prepares for
a show of native prairie photographs. My mother, who grew up in North Dakota,
read the Little House books to my sister and me years ago. Now, I’m enjoying
rereading this one, at how the story holds my attention, simply told, though it
is.
In an earlier volume, Wilder described “The Little House
in the Big Woods.” These woods which stretched from the Atlantic Ocean to the
flat lands of western Minnesota and the Dakotas. And where the woods stopped, a
river of grass began. This green river has of grass has flowed through the
middle of North America for millennia. As snow flattened the grasses over the
centuries, and the grasses decayed, the soil of these prairies became the most
profoundly fertile soil in North America.
We
make do with what we have. And sometimes we make “big.” Minnesota’s corn and
soybean enterprises stretch for miles over former prairies. My guess is that
they stretch for hundreds of miles in all directions. And of course Minnesota
soils are not alone. There’s Iowa and Nebraska to our south--flatter and
warmer, prime soil for corn, alfalfa, and soybeans.
This
would all be dandy if it weren’t for one thing: for years farmers have been
using, a deadly herbicide called Round Up, made by Monsanto. Today, farmers
plant genetically altered seeds that are protected from Round Up. Then they
spray Round Up on their plants and soil. Round Up kills everything that isn’t
corn or soybeans.
It’s
as if an enormous genii stood over the Big Woods of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s
Little Houses and sprayed gigantic hoses full of a leaf killer. Within days,
the oaks and maples, the ash and tupelo trees would all shed their leaves,
denuding the canopy and depriving animals of food like acorns, and insects that
depend on trees for food, and animals that need tree cover for protection from
the bigger and fiercer. It’s as if in one fell swoop a gigantic silence and
famine hit the land.
I’m
no Rachel Carson, America’s finest environmental writer. Her book Silent
Spring warned of such a silencing and deadening from another era’s wanton
use of DDT. Now we’re wantonly applying a broad leaf herbicide that eradicates
plants crucial for many insects.
Take
bees. More and more evidence is accumulating that even if plants survive Round
Up, they’re tainted. Bees that draw nectar from such tainted flowers lose their
ability to reproduce or to navigate that life-saving “beeline” to their hives.
It’s as if they have been hit on the head and can only stagger around.
Also
Monarch butterflies. The Sierra Club, mounting a large campaign to outlaw Round
Up, estimates that in the last 20 years, 90% of all Monarch butterflies have
disappeared. I assume that this means they’ve died or never been born. Gone,
Kaput, Fini! Not only is this a loss of one of nature’s most beautiful
creatures—the fluttering gold of autumn passing gently among our flowers. But
like the loss of the bees, the Monarchs’ decimation means doom to plants that
monarchs have historically pollinated.
But
we can’t blame only the farmers. Lawn-lovers too use Round Up. Since lawns are
almost entirely built of thin-leafed grass, anyone desiring a lawn so uniform
that it looks painted onto the soil can use Round Up. Such lawns grow not a
single broad-leaf plant—think dandelions, clovers—whose flowers attract and
feed bees and butterflies.
Round
Up can also directly threaten human life. An old couple I used to know had
maybe six or seven years together at the ends of their lives. They found each
other over a bridge table, and happy to have love in their old age, bought a
nice bungalow on the outskirts of a prairie city. Being nice, accommodating
folks, they wanted their lawn to look as nice as everyone else’s. Like their
neighbors, they used Round Up liberally, for one, then two, then three seasons.
In
the fourth season, the old man began to sicken. He began to totter and slur his
words. “Stroke,” whispered his daughter and son-in-law. His skin began to
slough off. He stopped eating. Within three months he was dead.
His
widow, mourning him, stayed on another couple of years, spreading Round Up on
the lawn just as her husband had done. She’d been the younger of the two, full
of laughter, a hearty, jolly sort. First her skin turned pale, then gray. Her
hands began to shake. She became unsteady on her feet. “Make sure she’s eating
well,” doctors advised her children. “Let’s have a look at her if she doesn’t
improve.”
When
they opened her up, her stomach was riddled with cancer. Quietly, without
telling her, they sewed her together. “You’ll be right as rain soon enough,”
the cheery doctors told her. It did rain, and the Round Up she and her husband
had for seven years lavished on their lawn, once again seeped into the soil and
into the water, which, once again, ran into the lake.
donna@mail.postmanllc.net
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