Lightning Bugs
Ian ran from the driveway toward the maple tree in our front yard, five quick steps, and then suddenly stopped, almost disappearing in the shadow of the tree at night. His hands suddenly shot out in front of him, slightly above his head, aiming for the flash of pale light. His brother, James, giggled and ran to Ian who proudly displayed his catch. Although I couldn’t see it from the front deck, I knew that the lightning bug was crawling out of Ian’s palm and would take wing again, almost immediately.
The summer day, exhausted by its own heat, had retired, relieved by a warm, sticky night, and I sat, watching my boys chase fireflies. As I watched, my thoughts slipped back to another hot summer night over four decades earlier. I stepped out onto my front porch, bored with the reruns on TV and the heat inside, and looked up the block. Mike, my neighbor, was walking in the street, his shadow reaching out long before him.
“Hi, Mike,” I called to him.
“Hi, Bill,” he answered, “Hey, do you want to walk to Merriam?”
This could only mean walking to the drug store where a young man in a white uniform waited on customers at the soda fountain, the store that would close in a half hour.
“I don’t know, Mike,” I replied, “I don’t have any money.”
“Come on, Bill,” said Mike, “How much money do you have?”
I did a quick inventory.
“I only have six cents,” I protested. Downtown Merriam was about a half mile away and, even though it was fully dark out, I knew the walk would work up a sweat.
“Come on,” he urged. “You can buy a cup of ice.”
“OK,” I agreed, mostly out of boredom, and we started out.
We walked on the lighted roads, talking about nothing in particular until we left the road for the walking path that would lead us to the bridge over Turkey Creek. On our right, remains of stone buildings, a car barn for the old Strang Line, were hidden by the night shadows. On our left, the Turkey Creek bottoms dropped below the path and stretched out, maybe three to five acres and we stopped in our tracks when we glanced in that direction.
Fireflies! There were thousands and thousands of them. Tens of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands of fireflies hovered, flashed and glided over that small area of bottomland. They flew at every level, from barely above the grass about 15 feet below me to well over 20 feet above my head. Mike stood silently beside me as we looked in amazement. My mouth fell open as I stared in wonder.
“Daddy,” James said, bringing me back to the present, “Look.”
He held a lightning bug between his small fingers, firmly, but gently. The abdomen pulsed with color in the night and I looked at James, his mouth, like mine over four decades ago, slightly smiling and open in wonder.
Bill Bartlett, a lifelong resident of the Kansas City area, shares the joys and challenges of their two autistic sons with his wife, Sandi.