Ode to Fireflies

For any of you who can't stomach the sight of city girl steppin' back into her country roots, you bess not read this one, cuz it's-a-comin' ya'll.

Seriously. I was up in the small town last week in which I grew cornstalk high over twenty July's. I almost cracked up my car coming home because I couldn't stop staring out at the oceans of fireflies on the long stretch of dirt road that brings me back to the highway, which brings me back to the city, which often, honestly, makes my poor heart ache. 

Tonight, in our city home, in the middle of our stamp-sized square of grass, I saw one single firefly. I think he felt his pathetic, token state, too, as his lonely little light was short circuiting. Only half of his bee-ish-hind lit up.

I have promised, as all good country folk do, to bloom where I am currently planted. And I will. You already heard my love song to sweet grass. And this is my love letter to fireflies. 

When I was young, I grew up in the woods, without television, without radio, without toilet paper—okay that's a lie, but the rest is true. So my sisters and I found, well, diversions. That was my parents' intent. Keep them bored, my father said, It will force them to be creative. And it did. And sometimes, it made us cruel. I know this is my LOVE SONG to fireflies, but it's a bit of an apology, too. In mid July, when the fireflies were mating and thicker than, as my mother would say,  molasses on a winter's day, my sisters and I would go down into the woods, in white nightgowns, grab handfuls of them, and smash them on our gowns until we too glowed in the night. For that, I am sorry. 

But, I'm not gonna lie to ya, I sure do wish I had a picture to post here. It was perrr-ty cool.

The ritual was eventually forgotten, as were the fireflies, when boys started comin' around. A decade later, on my last night in town after college graduation, I invited some friends over to my childhood home for a farewell. We sat inside and talked about how smart we'd all 'got ourselves up to be' and where we were off to next. It was a nice night—the kind that stays with you long enough to write about in a blog almost a decade later. But the best part, by far, was when I looked outside, into the woods and saw all those little lights. I grabbed eight towels from the linen closet, flung one at each friend, and told them to follow me for what passes in the country as 'live entertainment.' Our last night together ended shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out at those lights. 

There's nothin' like millions of bug asses lightin' up to remind you of how green you still are at 21 and how much more you have to learn.