A BradLands Flashback

Originally published on pre-permalink June 14, 1998

Sitting out on the back deck last night, communing with nature in the detached way that urban dwellers without the wherewithal for a visit to the country must, I saw my first firefly of the season. First one, then another and then a handful more. It reminded me of when I was a little boy growing up in New London, scampering about my backyard after my playmates -- always neighbor boys older than me, since I was the youngest on the block -- had gone in to supper or ridden their bikes across town to other diversions.

I would roam around for an hour or so, capturing the glowing insects in an empty Miracle Whip jar with airholes punched in the lid with an icepick. (I remember I thought that was the intended use for the implement; I'd never seen anyone use an icepick for another purpose.)

Maybe that's a useful demarcation for when childhood ends and adulthood begins, that time when we stop thinking about containing the glow of fireflies and other gentle creatures and are content merely to have them swirl around us.

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