FIREFLY NIGHTS

Ben from the Great Northwest commented on the most recent blog, "Hot August Nights." He was disappointed that I had left out any mention of our Ohio fireflies, aka lightning bugs; it seems he doesn't have those beautiful, harmless nighttime insects west of the Washington Mountains.

I promised him a fireflies story, and not the one about all us kids collecting jars full of them and then turning them loose in our bedrooms at night. My story is slightly more recent than that 1940s recollection.

It took place in July in the late 1980s. My doberman was growing old, and like many over-the-hill males, he needed to go to the bathroom quite often at night. I was the one he always selected as the "doorman" to let him out and watch for him to return.

That was a serious drought year; it was the year the peat moss in my garden actually caught fire. I'd had problems sleeping on that hot night, and I fumed and fussed when he woke me up, but as soon as I reached the back patio door, I forgave him.

For there, at the back of our property, an old weeping willow tree had apparently collected any available mist and moisture and coolness that was to be found, and this attracted the lightning bugs in great numbers. The interior of the willow's drooping branches, up and down from treetop to ground, were lined with fireflies, lighting that tree like Christmas in July. It was dazzling, and I pulled up a chair and looked at it for a good long time.

It's stamped forever in my memory, and for that I thank a good old dog who couldn't hold his pee for more than a few hours at a time.

R.A.T. (Rose About Town) hopes that is story enough for Ben of the Great Northwest. He can stop delivering his comments at randrmoore@gmail.com (where you're all welcome to register your comments to this blog) and start spending some of his summer times in Ohio again.

HOT AUGUST NIGHTS

This has been a cool summer, though normally August for us is filled with spa-like nights and cicadae night-music.

I recall a different sort of August, in our first summer here in the valley, a place of tall trees and creeks that flow through.

August that year was a wonderful string of simmering nights, and I often sat outside on the decks after dark, enjoying the heat and the late-summer sounds of the night.

One night I came in and scribbled the following into my journal

"Under stars that punch bright holes in the pierced tin dome of my universe,
I soak in the song of cicada;
sink deep in the mist that is born in creek waters;
and bathe in the moonlight that sifts through the trees like confectioners' sugar,
making a pastry of me."

In this 2009, my August nights have so far been cool, but tonight promises simmering low temperatures in the 80s. Rain is possible, but rain or not, I'll spend some time on my porch in the darkness, hoping for heat and cicada.

R.A.T. wishes you a good night.

(Feel free to share your thoughts with Rose About Town at randrmoore@gmail.com)