Fireflies

by Cassondra Murray



Steve and I went to Sonic tonight. Yes, we were desperate for quick, easy food. It's been a hard, fast, three-weeks-of-hell beginning to the summer (you'll hear more about that in later blogs from me almost certainly).



I don't have to work tomorrow for the first time in about 15 days straight, AND I'm sort of back online after a computer meltdown. Slow connection, but it's there. So the last thing I was gonna do tonight was cook. Okay, so there are stacks of boxes and books and the leftovers of a major garage cleanout piled in my kitchen and dining room, but the fact that I can't get to my cookware may or may not be a factor in the Sonic decision.

For you unfortunate souls who don't have Sonic near you, it's a double-sided drive-in with a big patio in the center. You can order right from your car, or you can get out and sit at the tables on the patio. We'd dug our way, with those stupid flimsy plastic forks, at least three bites into our foot-long chili-cheese dogs when we noticed the little girl at a table in the center.


She was probably seven or eight years old, and had on a purple outfit with a big glittery butterfly on the shirt, and long blonde hair. She was with her dad. He was eating a hot dog (not foot-long) and she was eating something that looked like popcorn chicken bites. But she was not eating many. She was too busy chasing fireflies.




There weren't many visible. There's way too much light around a Sonic to see them well. But she was completely entranced, jumping into the air and ducking under bushes trying to capture them. I got so caught up in watching her that I stopped eating less than six inches into my foot-long coney.





What is it about fireflies?





To this day, I think they're magic. Do all the research you want, tell me how and why they do what they do, and it won't dim their magic one bit for me.



I think it's because of the memories. Some of my best memories are of fireflies, or "lightning bugs" as we called them.

About this time of year in Southern Kentucky, the fireflies come out. Oh, nowadays there are a few rebels flickering their lonely little lights in early spring, but right about now...mid-June...that's firefly season here. It's also the time of year when it gets too hot in un-air-conditioned houses to enjoy sitting inside in the evenings. I did not grow up with air conditioning.




When I was little, in late May and early June, as the afternoons grew hot and humid, and the evenings grew warm, my dad would go outside after supper, in search of a cool evening breeze and the sound of the tree frogs and crickets, and since I went everywhere with my dad, I went outside too. He'd set up a lawn chair in the middle of the lawn. One of those cheap aluminum-frame chairs with the nylon webbing that lasted a couple of seasons if you were lucky.




Honestly though, the seating quality didn't matter much. We were there for the view. I grew up on a small farm about eight miles south of nowhere. No artificial light except the faint glow from the kitchen window around the side of the house. Quiet.




When my dad got his chair off the porch and headed for the front yard, I'd run into the kitchen and dig under the sink for my jar.



Mine was a Mason jar with a mayonaise lid. Daddy had taken a nail and hammered a few holes in the top for air flow.



Once I had my jar and he had his chair, we were ready for what, to this day, I consider some of the best evenings of my life.





First we'd sit until the last glow of day had faded in the West and the sky had grown dark. The stars flickered on just for us. If we put the chairs right in the middle of the lawn, we had a great view of the Big Dipper almost straight overhead.



Then came the contest--who could spot the first lightning bug in the tall, uncut fescue hay across the road. As the little bugs crawled up the grass from where they'd spent the day hidden, they'd start to flash, one by one. Just a flicker here, and a flicker there.


"There's one!" My dad would say in a loud whisper, then he'd lean forward and point, adding drama to the hunt. He always saw them first. Inborn talent I guess.


Soon though, there would be hundreds, all around, high and low, blinking and streaking across the yard like tiny shooting stars. My dad would hold my jar and keep the lid on real loose for expedient transfer of fireflies from my little-girl hands to the jar. To us, injuring a firefly was a sin almost as grave as the killing of a unicorn is today, in the world of Harry Potter. I'd chase the bugs and catch them ever-so-gently, then I'd run across the dewy grass and my dad would open the lid just a crack. Into the jar they'd crawl. Soon enough I'd have my own lantern.



This lantern was good, of course, only until the first mosquito bit my dad. Then it was time to go in, and the last ritual of the evening was to let the fireflies go.



Tonight I sat at Sonic and ignored my foot-long hot dog as I watched that little girl, and I realized that some magic is timeless. I'm not the only one enchanted by "lightning bugs." Apparantly it's nearly universal. When I googled pictures of fireflies, I found essays, research, pages and pages of photos of the bugs themselves, and even "faux fireflies in jars" with little electric firefly lights, just for effect I guess. Lots of people seem to want to hold onto a bit of the magic.




Catching a jarfull, just to let them go again is one of those things that goes away with make-believe and childhood I suppose. Sometimes I wonder why, as an adult, it's no longer fun to do simple stuff like that.

Nowadays I sit by my firepit with my very adult glass of cabernet, a long way from that dew-covered yard. I know the Latin names of the trees and plants around me, and I have the stresses and worries of an adult in a fast-paced world.




But I can still watch that same Big Dipper sail overhead, and listen to the frogs on the pond behind my house.




And I still go out there early, just so I can try to spot the first firefly.


So tell me, did you ever catch fireflies as a kid?




If you grew up in the city, were there fireflies there?



If you have kids or grandchildren, do they still like to chase the flickering lights?




Apparantly, in some parts of the world, the fireflies all light up at the same time, synchronized, like this picture on the right. Have you ever seen that happen?



What time of year do the fireflies come out where you live?


Do you pay attention, and watch for the first firefly each season? Or am I the only one who still does that?
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