Memories of Summers Past

This is a really strange summer for me. Brien is working full-time and Wes is in Utah for the next several weeks. I find myself kind of at loose ends, with Dane working and not really knowing what to do with myself in the evenings. It’s funny because I used to crave time to myself to read a book or watch something on tv that I wanted to watch or craft or anything. While I have been doing some of that, I find that it’s kind of hard to focus.

Last night was unseasonably cool for July in North Carolina and so I stood out on my front deck looking at the moon and enjoying the cool breeze. Off in the distance I saw the little flicker of light that indicates summer is really here in the South. Fire Flies!

I stood there watching the show for I don't know how long and I was remembering the first summer we lived in North Carolina. Brien was 8 and Wes was 6 and we discovered Fire Flies for the first time. Nearly every night of the summer, there was a meeting called to order promptly at 8:45, in our front yard. It was the Council of Sweaty-Headed Little Boys Who Were Trying To Put Off Bedtime As Long As Possible, meeting for the serious task of catching as many fireflies as their old mason and mayonaise jars could hold.

Every night the routine was the same: the Council comes to order with a squeal of joy when the first "twinkle" appeared. It's a summer symphony: the slamming of jar lids, shouts of "I got one!", wails of anguish when one got away. There was the thump of little bodies colliding in the dusk, the hiss of Off! spray, and the ever-present song of the cicada humming behind it all.

And there was the same conversation every time: do we keep our fireflies, or let them go? They'll live longer in the wild, but oh! the tempting joy of a mason jar of fireflies on a bedside table in the dark.

As a testament to the charity of children, the fireflies were usually released, often with a naming ceremony (strangely, there was always a Larry--why was there always a Larry? I’ll have to ask Brien & Wes about that) and a bittersweet farewell. The Council adjourned for baths and bedtime and dreams of a 1000 little Fairies dancing in the trees.

Last night I found myself wishing on the stars and missing my “little” boys and whispering in the dark, “Goodnight, Larry. Until tomorrow.”