On warm humid southern evenings as the sun sank over the horizon, the yard came alive with little flashing lights. We called them lightning bugs. Some folks called them fireflies. It was a sure sign that summer was well on its way.
As a kid, I spent hours catching lightning bugs. My sister and I got little jars, punched holes in the lids, and headed outside to collect nightlights. By the time I got to the spot where I saw a flash, the bug was already gone. It wasn’t long before lights flashed all around me. I scooped up some bugs and added them to my jar that was padded with grass.
For me, catching lightning bugs was a yearly childhood game. By the time the warm evening was over, my jar had enough lightning bugs to light up the bedroom. Sometimes they mysteriously escaped and flew all over the room flashing as they went. Whatever lightning bugs were still in the jar by morning were released – only to be chased again the next night.
The other evening, my youngest granddaughter and I sat on the porch when the lightning bugs started flashing. So, guess what we did. We ran barefooted through the damp grass and scooped up those little flashes of light that blinked in harmony with each other as they sang their summer song.