Sneak Peeks by Louise Yeiser McAlpin

What do you do?

“What do you do?” the large print asked, with the tiny print below the box, advising that I keep my answer within 250 words.  I paused to think before I began.

Meditation and yoga, travel, writing, training mastiffs, reading, knitting, walking, tons of volunteer work.  I love to make up budgets and execute to-do lists and pay my bills on time.  I do not enjoy going to the beauty parlor, shopping or doing laundry.  I hate ironing and refuse to de-vein shrimp.  I like to sit in my back yard on summer evenings and watch the gloaming, keeping my eye on the woods where the tree-line meets the sky, and taking note of the exact moment the barn swallows appear, followed by bats, lightning bugs and nighttime stars.  Usually morning is my favorite time of day; but in the summer, it is the gloaming, the twilight, that mysterious transition of day into night, when the sky is a deep blue or gray or purple and the whole world changes into something else.

“This late in the summer, the lightning bugs have thinned out,” I think.  “I wonder if I should've written about that.”

Have a great last-weekend-in-July weekend!

From Louise

Annual Ode to Lightning Bugs

It's almost the middle of July and I have written absolutely nothing about lightning bugs.  Not a word.  Nil.  Nada.  But I always write about lightning bugs, as you can see here and here.  For me, their initial sighting is a rite of passage, my way of acknowledging that summer has finally and officially arrived.  This year I noticed them for the first time around June 5, which is a little earlier than usual, but not significantly so.

Last week on the 4th, I was trying to offset the loss of a much-loved friend, by sitting down on the front porch to search the night sky for fireworks.  My cat joined me, opting to sit close to me and clean her whiskers.  I could hear booming from several directions, and I could see flashes of red, white, and blue barely visible above the tree-line that borders my property to the west.  Was I paying attention?  No, I was not.  For Mother Nature was performing her own show right there in my yard, and I was too busy being enchanted by her spell to pull my eyes away.  Why bother with man-made rockets, accompanied by loud bangs that rattled the windows, when I could watch the inky silhouettes of trees, sparkling with tiny twinkles that silently flickered like hundreds of glittering Advent calendars that were running amok in the darkness?  The scene was punctuated here and there with stringy flashes, as a stray firefly or two soared across the yard, creating its own bright, zooming streak that pierced the darkness beneath the shimmering shadows.  It was quite a sight, and I stayed out longer than I meant to, watching and wondering about it all.

I suspect that, in spite of the many glorious, fun-filled Independence Day nights I have enjoyed over the years in Naples with long-time friend Caroline, cheering on the fireworks from our blanket on the beach, where we were surrounded by clapping, singing people, and children kicking up sand and waving their sizzling sparklers, this bittersweet display of '07 is the one I will probably remember the best.

A Lightning Bug Beginning

Friday night after dinner, I had gone outside to retrieve my suitcase from the car, and paused for a moment in dad’s driveway to marvel at the brightness and beauty of the almost-full moon, spilling its splendor over a resistant darkness, when I saw a sparkle of light high up in the line of evergreens that bordered his driveway. Since  it was a very cold, rainy, un-summerlike dusk, I thought I was seeing things; but as I stood there gazing up at the sky, I observed the hide-and-seek twinkle again.  And then again.  Dots of good cheer dancing among the wet evening shadows.  I smiled.  Summer had arrived.

I wonder what marks the beginning of the season for other people.  Could it be the first day when the temperature goes above 80°?  Or maybe that last day of class when the bell rings and students jump from their seats, cheering and surging towards the door, to burst out of the building into a world of freedom, where the drudgery of school is suspended for 2-1/2 glorious, sun-soaked months.  Maybe it is the moment when robe-clad graduates return to their seats, after having walked across the stage to receive their diplomas, knowing that their parents are blinking back tears while videotaping the entire event for all posterity.  Or maybe it is nothing more than a date on the calendar.  June 21, I think is the “official” beginning of summer.  Or is it the 23rd?  Obviously, I don’t keep careful track, like many others who don’t notice the point of transition, letting the season slip in and out of their lives unacknowledged, like so many other organic occurrences that pass without ceremony.

But since I love to celebrate anything, I welcome the first lightning bug sighting of the year with considerable excitement and fanfare.  It is my formal marker for the beginning of summer, which occurred both this year and last year on June 9, arriving with its memories of a tiny, whirlwind era immersed in first boyfriends, bare feet, kisses, all-night dances and parties, and awakenings.  Those mesmerizing dots of swooping, swirling light hold magic for me, and carry it forward over the decades, freely immersing me in charmed, surrealistic images of summers sweetened with time gone by.

Lightning Bug Moments to Remember

For me, summer 2005 has finally  begun in earnest.  My first lightning bug sighting was June 9, a couple of nights ago.  At first, I thought it was a jet playing hide-and-seek with me behind the tree branches; but as I continued to watch, I observed other lights dancing among the leaves in the growing darkness.  I quickly ended my phone conversation, so that I could sit and watch without distraction.  Yes, summer had arrived.

I wonder what conditions or events mark the beginning of the season for other people.  Could it be the first day when the temperature goes above 80°?  Or maybe that last day of school when the final bell rings and the students jump out of their seats, yelling a huge “Yay!” before making the mad rush to the door, bursting outside into a world of freedom, where the drudgery of school is suspended for 2 ½ glorious, sun-soaked months.  Maybe it is the moment when the undergrads sit down in their seats after having just walked across a stage to receive their diplomas, knowing that whole families are watching from the audience, busily videotaping the entire event for posterity.  To many, it may be nothing more than a date on the calendar.  June 21, I think is the “official” beginning of summer.  Or the 23^rd.  Who decided which date, and how did they have the authority to make it the starting point for all of us?  Are certain calendars marked differently than others?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that most people don’t think about the day a season begins.  They allow it to slip into their lives unacknowledged, like most other everyday occurrences that are experienced without ceremony.  Is this complacency, unawareness or acceptance?  Again, I don’t know.  All I know is that I love to ritualize and celebrate any event that I can; hence, the first lightning bug sighting of the year marks my official beginning of the summer.

Lightning bugs and summer remind me of an extraordinary night many years ago, when I was out with Jeff, a talented, young attorney on the rise in Cincinnati.  A 3-piece suit by day, he was a closet biker by night―Harley, of course.  He was the king of deadpan faces and used them to make me laugh.  We were good friends.  I was divorced with two small children at home, plus a sitter, and he had never been married.  In our mid-30’s, we were old enough to know better than to be sneaking around late at night, doing stuff we shouldn’t have been doing.  However, since he had been telling (supposedly) true ghost stories to me over dinner, and since I responded by being scared half to death, we decided in the spirit of the moment, to go to an empty community theater playhouse that was purportedly haunted; to see if we could sneak in and maybe see a ghost.

Arriving close to midnight, we were surprised to find the door of the building unlocked; an unexpected twist of fortune that gave me the creeps and delighted Jeff.  I had assumed that we would need to be creative to get inside, but coincidence had made our entrance quite simple.  Our voices softened to whispers as we let ourselves into the dark building, ignoring the obvious fact that we were trespassing.  Once inside, of course the door swung shut behind us with a soft thud, like it does in all the scary movies.  I gasped and jumped, pointing out to Jeff that we were now completely shut inside the building, in total darkness.  He promised to not let go of my hand; otherwise, I would have bolted.  After taking a minute or two to adjust to the darkness, we agreed that we were in a long hallway.  Slowly and methodically, we began to move forward.  I could feel the floor’s unevenness beneath my feet, as it creaked ominously with each step, while we made our way slowly down the hall.  I could feel the hair on my arms standing up, and I was aware of prickly sensations tickling the back of my neck.  I was terrified.  I lasted as long as I could, getting as far into the hall as possible; when, with a loud shriek, I pulled my hand from his, turned and ran as fast as I could, back toward the door.  I half expected it to be locked, but it wasn’t.  Once I was back outside under the soothing light of the moon, I ran to Jeff’s car and waited for him to join me.  I was afraid to be with him in the haunted house, and afraid to be alone outside.  I was relieved when he finally appeared.

“Come back in!”

“Nuh uh.  I’m not going in there.  It’s spooky, and I’m too scared.”

“Louise, how many times in your life are you going to want to go through a haunted house in the middle of the night in a full moon and arrive on the scene to find it unlocked and waiting for you?”

Despite his most persuasive arguments, I refused to go back in.  Besides, it was August 31, surely the apex of something magic and mysterious; in addition to the fast approaching midnight hour, complete with a full moon.  I didn’t thing the mixture of those factors were conducive to a safe and pleasant adventure.  There had to be something paranormally significant about all three occurring at once.

We stood by his car, debating our next move, when he happened to glance up to notice a brilliant, flashing activity that was playing out in the wooded darkness beside us.  He stopped talking.  We both turned and looked.  Millions upon millions of lightning bugs swirled and danced in and out of the trees in a breathtaking abundance of brightness that neither of us had ever seen before.  The numbers of them and the profusion of their light was arresting.  Spectacular.

“Wow!” I said.  “Have you ever seen so many lightning bugs before?”

"God, what’s wrong with them?”  Jeff asked, in his usual caustic way.

But I could see his point.  There were so many more than we usually saw in any one place, and they were mixing, blending, swirling, broiling so grandly, that it truly did suggest a problem or some unusual phenomenon.  We were both flabbergasted and mesmerized by the sight.

“Maybe it’s lightning bug mating season,” I giggled.  “Can you think of any other reason why there are so many?”

“God.  It looks like the beginning of a Stephen Spielberg movie, doesn’t it?”

“It sure does.  Wow!”

All we could do was stand there, dumbfounded, and watch the radiant, turbulent display.  Eventually I looked at my watch, its markings glowing faithfully in the moonlight, showing me the time.

"It’s midnight, Jeff.”

“Wow,” he said again, his usual brash cynicism momentarily suspended, as he looked up toward the trees with eyes wide upon, mouth parted, straining to see.  For a minute, he looked like an overgrown child sporting a beard and moustache, watching the fireworks on the 4^th of July.

"This is a moment,” I said. 

And what a moment it was.  Two friends standing by a car on the edge of a wood, behind a haunted house, gazing at a sparkling array of busy brilliance in the full moon at midnight on August 31.  The planets must have lined up in a certain way just for us, presenting one of those fleeting, unforgettable snapshots of time.  I think of that night every summer.  Although it seems like a lifetime ago, it lingers in my mind, still vivid and fresh.

I wonder what happened to Jeff.  I heard that he left his law firm, moved to Toledo and got married to another attorney.  By now, he probably has a few grown children.  Maybe he has grandchildren, old enough to listen to his (supposedly) true ghost stories.  I am sure he remembers that night, even if he doesn't think about it as much as I do.  Wherever he is, I wish him well and I hope he is happy.

We were given a moment.  And the best part was―we each had a friend with whom to share it.

copyright 2005