LIGHTNING BUGS AND THE MAYONNAISE JAR

(sigh)
The sweet smell of honeysuckle wafts through the dense, humid air getting stronger the closer I come to the patch of it. Hundreds of lightning bugs flit around close by making tiny blinking pulses in the night, and I am entranced. Cupping my hand I am able to capture two at a time -- slow-moving, they are -- and turning my palm, flip them downward into the freshly-washed mayonnaise jar. Just minutes before I had taken the ice pick from the kitchen drawer and poked several holes in the lid in order to allow air to seep in but being careful not to make the holes large enough for them to escape. 

Running barefooted through the night, I'm able to catch a dozen or so of them in my hands and transfer them to the jar. I remember my hands having a "pencil lead" scent from the fireflies; and if I close my eyes and concentrate, I can almost recall that scent to this day.

Treasure in a jar, I skip back to the house and ask for a double-stick banana popsicle, which I take out to the steps and sit and lick while having my nose an inch from the side of that flickering glass container. I hear dishes clattering inside as the women clean up from supper and talk about church the next day. Off in the distance the men are sitting on the porch smoking their unfiltered Camels and hashing over the problems at the local paper mill.

Can't consume that popsicle fast enough to keep it from melting and dripping down between my toes, but no matter. I'll watch the lightning bugs until the popsicle is gone, and then I'll lift the lid and watch them fly away.  Don't see many lightning bugs any more, and that's a shame. But every time I DO see a few, it reminds me of a simpler time and the essence of my southern childhood.