I
remember warm summer nights on my grandparents’ farm in Iowa chasing
fireflies. The dark would creep up
from the pasture behind the barn and soon cloak the old outbuildings and the
orchard. The silos would disappear into
twilight and the corn crib would slowly became a dark shadow. The yard light on the no-longer active windmill would
flick on and chase some of the darkness away, but the shadows under the full
weeping willow stayed dark and deep.
Until…
fireflies.
Little
dappled lights would start flickering in that shadowed world under the willow
tree, looking like little fey lanterns.
Soon, answering lights would appear near the flower beds filled with lilies
and tulips. The lights would wink on and
off in a fascinating rhythm and pattern.
My sister's nose would press against the big glass window in the kitchen that
looked out onto the gravel drive and the flower beds. I would look out the screen door toward the numinous dark and blinking lights under the willow. We’d count the flashing bugs and do our own pestering of the adults until they gave in.
Grandma
would go into the landing to the basement and get an old canning jar with the
screw on lid. This jar had been used for
catching fireflies for many years, so the lid was already punctured at the top
to let the air in. Whether my mother and
her sisters and brother had used this same jar, I don’t know; but I know that
my sister and I definitely had, for as long as I could remember.
Heather
and I would run out into the dark, unafraid, to capture the little flying
lights. We’d race, hands outstretched,
around the old gray farmhouse, giggling and doing our best not to hurt the bugs
as we caught them. Around the house, between the old chicken coop and the garage, through the apple tree orchard we’d
go, racing toward the dancing fairy lights. We’d play tag under the weeping willow with them, for just as we’d get
close to grasping the lightning bugs in our hands they’d blink off and we’d
lose them in the dim.
When we
did succeed in cupping our little hands around a flying flasher, we’d squeal
with glee and giggle as we’d run to deposit our trophy in the old Mason jar. As there were two of us, the jar would soon
be filled with ten to fifteen lightning bugs, and we’d marvel at the light show
captured under slightly blue glass. I
always wanted to carry our treasure up the stairs to our room. I imagined that I’d set the fairy jar on the
old trestle-type sewing machine that served as a night table between the twin
beds. That way, all night long, if we
woke up, we’d see the little lights blink on and off.
But mom and Grandma (as well as dad
and Grandpa) were against that idea. So
we just watched them in their little jar as they flashed their love messages
into the dark. Eventually we’d unscrew
the jar and let the fairy lights fly away, back to their world under the
weeping willow and among the lilies and tulips in the flower beds.
I was reminded of all this by a
post on facebook by my friend Laura. She
commented that her son loved chasing fireflies, and how he usually didn’t
capture them—how instead he’d “smush” them. Well, he’s a boy, and he
probably doesn’t think of the fireflies like little fairies… but her post
reminded me of a time I miss. It was a time of the
innocence of youth and the joys of a warm summer night with nothing to think
about except…chasing fireflies.
