I hadn’t seen a firefly since I was a child.
I would take a mason jar into the yard and try to predict where one might appear. Every once in a while I was right, and a light would blink on just in front of the mouth of the jar. Usually I wasn’t. A glow would appear ten yards over the wrong shoulder & disappear into the night.
There are fireflies in the Berkshires. We didn’t see any that weekend, but I know they’re around.
It was the last weekend of summer, though we decided it was the first weekend of fall. Mostly because we were cold.
Instead, we threw a baseball around until one sailed over a shoulder and hit a tree. We whittled sticks for marshmallows. Some chose long branches that kept them safely outside the smoke. Some of us chose sticks barely longer than our hands and singed the hair off our knuckles.
In the morning, the dew soaked through everything.
The cold grass reminded me of Trout Lake. Learning that an over-easy egg is better with the right breakfast sausage beside it.
None of it was remarkable enough to plan a trip around.
That was probably what made us appreciate it as we did.
As a kid, catching a firefly was about being quick enough to get the jar over the light. I didn’t understand that the best part was watching it fly away & the rush of seeing another to chase after.