Yesterday was the first official day of our summer vacation.
After supper I made slushies and we drank them on the back porch.
Then the girls started throwing frisbee and talked me into joining them. Somehow this evolved into a brutally physical but hysterically funny game of Monkey-In-The-Middle.
I suggested we end the first day of summer vacation by catching fireflies. Actually, I've always called them lightning bugs, but "fireflies" is so much more poetic. The girls were all for it, so we stayed outside and waited. But no fireflies.
Tonight we tried again and we were not disappointed! This time we were out a little later, after the girls had taken their showers. We only saw a couple in our yard, but several were twinkling in the distant dusk of my parents' yard, so off we went.
Thirty minutes and many squeals of delight later, we had a jar of maybe half a dozen fireflies. Many others were chased, and really, isn't the chase what it's all about? Running with cupped hands toward what was a second ago, a blinking light, but now -- where'd he go? Then another twinkle - hey there he is -- oh, why won't his light stay on longer?
I am sad for anyone who doesn't have a childhood memory of watching these fairy-lights on early summer evenings when staying out past dark feels like really getting by with something.
And I'm thankful to still have kids young enough to appreciate the enchantment of fireflies.
