Fireflies And Summer Rain ...Stars at Night, a Million Stars, Hung Low

Fireflies And Summer Rain ... Stars at Night, a Million Stars, Hung Low

Pentwater, Michigan

Pentwater, Michigan, courtesy of Chamber of Commerce

On rare nights when the fog didn't come in, my brother and I would sometimes lie on our backs in the tall grass and swat mosquitoes (and get bitten by them) as we watched the brilliant stars wheel overhead. Smog hadn't yet come to the Bay Area, and the dry air was very clear. The first poem I ever wrote, when I was about 8, ended with: "... and stars at night, a million stars, hung low."

The first time I ventured east of the Mississippi, I was five years old. The War had begun, and my parents knew that soon travel would be impossible. As soon as school let out for the summer, my mother, brother and I boarded the train at the Oakland Mall and headed back to New York State to visit Great Aunt Julia. She was then 88 years old, and my mother, who was her closest relative, was anxious to see her one last time.

Aunt Julia lived with a companion in a small town in upstate New York. She had a big old house with nooks and crannies to delight children, including a dark back stairway just made for haunting. There was a stuffed loon on the dresser in my brother's bedroom, and in mine, a small white china cat holding a purple and gold velvet ball that was a pincushion. Best of all there was a barn out back (empty, alas), and a lawn and big trees where we could play tag. I remember the first evening at dusk when we sat out on the porch, still a bit in awe of our aunt, and on our best behavior. Suddenly there was a small gleam of light in the air right by my foot. I wasn't sure I had really seen it, but shortly there was another, a little farther away.

"What is it?" I breathed, not the least afraid because it seemed somehow friendly, a bit like the stars I loved.

"Ginger Blue!" said Aunt Julia. "Has the child never seen a firefly?" (I think I was almost as entranced by that "Ginger Blue!" — which turned out to be Aunt Julia's favorite exclamation — as I was by the fireflies).

Bottles were quickly provided so that my brother and I could catch fireflies to our hearts' content, a task I adored because the fool things were so easy to capture, and didn't sting or bite like our California bugs.

The next leg of our trip took us to New York City, where it was hot and humid, and then to New Jersey to stay with cousins who had children about our ages. The afternoon we arrived, there was a good rain, and because the grownups hadn't heard any thunder, we were allowed to put on our bathing suits and go out to play in it. I can still remember the wonder of that: it was lots better than playing in our sprinkler on a hot day at home. In California, the rains didn't come until the weather had turned cold, and you'd no more go out in your bathing suit in rain than you would in snow.

The rest of the trip took us to our Mother's old college, where we saw snapping turtles in the lake, and then on to Chicago, and to Pentwater, Michigan, where we visited Mother's former roommate in her wonderful house by the lake. It seemed strange to be playing in the sand dunes and then swimming in fresh, not salty water, but the winds off the lake were cool and welcome.

That trip also provided me with my first glimpse of lightning, as we came across the Great Plains. From my upper berth, I could look out the little window and see huge bolts of lightning on the horizon, although because of the distance, or possibly the noise of the train, I never heard the thunder. I was quite afraid of the lightning. It seemed unpredictable, and looked violent even though it was beautiful.

Now that I have lived more than half my life in the East, I've gotten over being afraid when I hear the first rumbles of thunder, although I still don't enjoy it when there are strikes so near that you can hear the fizz-snap simultaneously with the bang. I have never stopped loving fireflies. On evenings after a rain, or when the grass has been freshly cut, we can count on a large number of winking lights, and the woods in the hollow behind our house are often like a fairyland of tiny stars moving lazily about among the trees.

One of the things I most appreciate about the East in summer is that despite horrible daytime heat, and humidity so thick you'd swear you could squeeze a handful of air and watch it drip, the evenings can be pure magic. With no coastal fog to chill us, we can sit out on the deck at night without even a sweater and enjoy watching those fireflies, or perhaps the flying squirrels that come to our bird feeder.

And, if we're lucky, it will rain often enough so that we're not eternally tied to the garden hose, although during a dark and rainy spell like the one we've had this past week, we find ourselves grumbling that it's good weather to grow mushrooms and not much else.

But after all, summer is summer, no matter where you live, and it needs nothing else to recommend it. In any guise, it's a time for living lightly and slowing down to enjoy whatever nature brings you. If you do it right, when Labor Day rolls around you'll have begun to be bored with summer, and you'll be ready for Fall's up-gearing once again.

In the meantime, let insouciance reign.

*A female Common Glow-worm (Lampyris noctiluca) in the grass in Loudwater, Buckinghamshire. Timo Newton-Syms; Wikimedia Commons

**An update from NPR's Science Friday on fireflies:

http://sciencefriday.com/segment/07/31/2015/so-flashy-the-chemistry-behind-a-firefly-s-glow.html?utm_source=Weekly+Newsletter+List&utm_campaign=ef40ca1a68-Newsletter_July_31_2015&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_10d8eab927-ef40ca1a68-53814413

***A further update of a WYNC.org interview with photographer Gregory Crewdson, Reflecting on Art and Life with Fireflies

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