Fireflies

(6-28/29-05, post for No Polar Coordinates. (Midnight))

I hit a firefly coming east on the Thruway. It hit the windshield, flared like a match, only green, and then faded and went out, leaving only a spot on the windshield. An ordinary bug spot. I felt bad, sad. Like hitting a butterfly. Like hitting a fairy. Taking some light from the world.

It reminded me of Keith telling me that when they were driving down river Road to visit me, Graham suddenly said he remembered our stopping to see the fireflies.

One night last summer, driving back from Loretto or somewhere with Keith and Graham, I remembered having earlier seen fireflies along River road, especially in one spot at the corner of the field by the hedgerow. Since Keith and Graham live in the city, and since I have never seen fireflies there, I thought they might enjoy an opportunity to see them. I suggested to Keith that we stop. We pulled to the side of the road and Keith turned off the headlights. We sat and watched. The fields, tall grass and hedgerows sparkled with fireflies, like winged and wild stars. Above in the sky, the constellations moved too, but so slowly, we couldn't see the motion.

"Do you see the fireflies Graham?" I asked, "Aren't they pretty?"

"Yeah," he said, but he didn't sound very excited. I was disappointed, at the time, and thrilled later that he'd remembered and commented about it.

It seems there are fewer fireflies than there used to be. One night a couple weeks ago, I saw one at my house. One is not enough. If there aren't at least two, there won't be more.

But in the fields out in countryside, there are still fireflies. Maybe I just don't get out in the summer fields at night enough. Perhaps I need to go and count them, see if there are as many.

Fireflies seem magical to me because of their ability to create light. I've read about the scientific principles behind bioluminescence, but it doesn't erase the magic. Light is miraculous.

Tonight, coming home through highway construction, I came upon a truck with a huge globe of light. Several men wearing masks were ripping apart the pavement and dust and dirt filled the air. It cascaded away in a fountain, lit by the strange globe of light. I wished I could have set up a tripod and recorded the scene. But even more, I wished I hadn't hit the firefly.

I once wrote a poem about fireflies. It is like a fable; I don't know if I got the idea somewhere or made it up out of whole cloth. I thought I was making it up, but I’m never 100% sure.

How the First Mother Brought Winged Stars to Earth

The first mother slept in the shadows of her mud hut

and the people forgot her. They forgot the stories, forgot

how the first mother had come from the sky and given birth

to the mothers of the first people. The people hunted

in the forests and prairies, fished in the streams, and sang

under the stars until the first clouds were born of the mother

sea. The first clouds grew and grew and covered the stars,

weeping on and off for more than all the fingers and toes of days.

The first people caught the sadness of clouds, and as the clouds

wept, the people wept with them. Sadness flooded the first mother’s

dreams. Though the first mother was ancient and shrunken,

she was spry in dreams. She danced in the dream shadows

of her hut into a dream of star country. She dreamed herself

winged. The first mother flew among the stars. Gathered

great flocks of them into the nets of her wings. Rose singing

from her dreams. And in the darkness of the nadir

the first mother came to the door of her hut. Singing,

the first mother called the people from their shelters to gather

around her. She opened her hands, and released flying stars.

Shining and twinkling, they dispersed into the tall grass

and wildflowers. The people gasped, then laughed, then sang

again. Sang and sang. Now, the first mother told them,

as long as the nights are warm, the grass grows tall, the air

is kept sweet and clean, and the stories are told and retold,

children, even those who have forgotten me, will have stars.

Fireflies, the first mother called them. On clear nights,

the first mother promised stars above and stars below.

Even on cloudy nights, when the first people see fireflies,

they remember the stories; they remember to sing.

~

[Post Written in the Emergency Room at St. Joseph's Hospital at my Mother's bedside.]

Pressed

Kate's story of visiting the cave of the traveling Maasai herdsmen reminds me, I'm not sure why, of going to the Syracuse Community Choir Christmas concert. It was very crowded, standing room only, and everything kept going wrong. In between the problems, the music was deeply beautiful. The very best part of the concert for me was being pressed tightly between Keith and Graham for several hours. I loved having that time and contact with them--we just don't spend enough time together. Graham is gone for three weeks visiting his Aunt Sandy, his mother's sister. His biologoical mother, Susan, died several years ago.

Octopi of Smoke

I did not get on-line at all yesterday. We got up, went to Jackson to visit Gail, walked at the DAHLEM nature center there, and found out that their funding has been cut. The center was closed and no one was there at all, but we walked and I took 99 pictures on one camera and I don't know how many on the other--some came out great and you may see some soon. It was incredibly hot and we were slick with sweat. But we still had fun. Then we went directly to Sam's for fireworks and did not get home til late. The fireworks were lovely--maybe the best I've ever seen. It was quite still, except for a slow high air movement, and the smoke trails from the fireworks hung in the air and moved slowly to the side and were lit by the new fireworks. They looked like huge dangling octopi or squid. It was so interestingly beautiful. I did not take a single picture because I had neglected to bring a tripod and know from experience that it is a waste of time to take fireworks or firework trails without a tripod! So it will have to live in my memory!

Self-portrait in Store WIndow of US

Self-portrait of US, in a store window.

Wallowing in Anger

I am just getting over being really annoyed at Keith over some little issue. Maybe the heat and my swollen feet are contributing, or whatever toxins cause my feet to swell. It's hardly worth the effort of reading it, but if you're interested, it's posted in two parts on The Unbearable Darkness of Being. Since this, No Polar Coordinates, is my "Master Blog," and since people seem confused by the overwhelming plethora of blogs, I thought I'd link them.

This blog, No Polar Coordinates, is about anything! That one is about pain and suffering, fibromyalgia, depression etc. Bummer stuff. So you can choose not to go over there if you don't want to be bummed out! LOL!

Post Note to Naugahyde Bag

Comment 6/22: Today, I carried the fancy bag that used to be Susan's and that Erin says is worth so ridiculously much money to the corner grocery store to carry my food home in (feeling very continental). It was the right size and fairly comfortable. What good is a fancy bag if you can't use it?

(See earlier note on Naugahydye bag)

A Solstice Birthday

It’s the solstice, the summer solstice, longest day and shortest night of the whole year. Seems like we could celebrate. But it is hot and humid and sticky and rainy and we are so busy. Too busy.

We walked, nowhere special, just down the street where we live. We saw pink spirea in flower, and the dogwoods with the attenuate petals. The puddles on the sidewalks and the baby bunnies out on the clipped lawns in the shadows looking for the plants that the Chemlawn sprayers kill.

It is 9:30 and starting to get dark. Outside the window, the robins are singing for rain. Upstairs, Keith is paying bills. Earlier he was working on the brakes of my car. Before that, he was working. Work working. When he came home, I served him supper. I made meatloaf, a broccoli and cheese casserole (yes, with fake cheese on mine), and raisin molasses bran scones. Nothing special for the solstice.

We did nothing special for father’s day, either. It passed like any other day.

Today is the solstice. It is also my daughter’s birthday. 31 years ago today, I gave birth to the most beautiful baby in the world. Or so it seemed to me at the time. And then the smartest. The fastest-developing baby. The earliest walker. She turned out pretty good. I’m proud of her!

I try to call her. On the way to the phone, I step on something sharp at the edge of the rug. It pierces my foot. I dial anyway. She’s not there. I hope when they check the caller ID and she sees my number listed, she’ll know it means happy birthday.

What I was doing today, among other things, was trying to catch up with my serial story, Discovery at Little Hog Island. I made some progress. But I didn’t catch up.

Keith comes downstairs and mixes himself a drink. Outside the window, everything from the treetops down looks black. But the sky is still faintly orange and not dark enough for stars. What I’d like is a bowl of sorbet with fresh fruit. But I will have to settle for a glass of water.

For the solstice, we could light a single candle to symbolize a one-candle night. But we probably won’t.

Keith asks me if I want him to read to me. We are reading The Mermaid Chair. He puts his palms lovingly on the sides of my chest, from the back. His palms are warm and communicate great love. I say I would like him to read to me. He says he will wait upstairs.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005; 9:44 PM

The Naugahyde Bag

The Naugahyde Bag

The Naugahyde Bag

I'm upstairs with too many individual items to carry down in one trip and I'm running late, so I grab Susan's Naugahyde bag. It’s got nice long sturdy leather shoulder straps, kind of tan colored, and would look okay if it weren't for that weird pattern on the Naugahyde. I know the bag is expensive, Keith has told me in no uncertain terms. But I don't think he'll mind if I borrow it, as long as I bring it back. It was Susan's. She, he told me, knew what was what (the implication being I did not, but I don't care. Who wants to know whether a Naugahyde bag is expensive or not? I just want to know if it's sturdy, holds all my stuff, and is comfortable to carry. If it looks nice, so much the better. This bag is a little funny looking, but it'll do.)

Keith had told me the name of the bag, something French. Pierre? Louis? I don't know. Erin, my daughter, has one of those bags, a smaller one. She thinks they are pretty grand, so I take mine to show her. Suddenly, it's mine. Well, could be, I suppose, since Susan is gone.

Erin gasps when she sees it in the car. "Don't leave it in the car; it's probably worth more than $2500. People will break in and steal it.”

“They wouldn't need to break in,” I say, “I never lock my car.”

“Why not?”

“There's nothing to steal,” I say. “I'll lock it in the trunk.”

“There's no other way to get into the trunk?”

“Well, yeah, but how would they know it's in there?” I ask. Erin is shaking her head in frustration.

Why, I wonder, would I want to own something that people would break windows to steal? And why would anyone who would want to be seen with such an item be the kind of person who would break windows and steal?

Erin is horrified at my attitude. “Gimmee gimmee,” she says, making come-hither signals with her hands. Is she coveting my new bag? I can't really give it to her. It's actually Susan's. Keith's now. If it's really worth $2500, I'd better not hand it over without asking.

I think about the $2500. If I scan a dollar at the cash register at Wegman's, I could feed a hungry person for a day. So they say. I don't quite see how, I can't feed myself for a dollar. Maybe it's subsidized. If so, I could, with $2500, feed 2500 people for a day. And if not, I sure could buy a lot of books for a girls school in Tehran or help some injured orphans in Iraq or feed some starving people in Rwanda or even help some of the kids at the school where I used to teach. I could donate to a science museum or be the patron of an artist. I could do something useful with the money.

Maybe buy myself a camera with a few more megabytes to increase my creative abilities. I could send Graham to music camp for a couple weeks. I could send my daughter Erin to Tuscany, where she’s always wanted to go. I couldn’t do all those things, but I could something useful, something helpful, something honorable and good. What is honorable and good about spending $2500 for a handbag when you can get a nice one at LL Bean for less than $65?

Some people, I think, have too much disposable income and not enough imagination. But then, who am I to judge? I'm sure there are people who would criticize my choices. My own daughter, for one.

I'm hoping she will continue to respect my choices, as I will try to respect hers, even if I may not always agree. I deeply believe in our right to disagree.

Here's where I become non PC and alienate half the population. I hate being too inflammatory because I like to keep my friends. But the whole tone of this note is rather inflammatory, so here goes: I was going to guess that only republicans would carry those Naugahyde bags, Louie or Pierre or whatever they are. I think of republicans as people who steal from the poor and give to the rich, a sort of reverse Robin Hood syndrome. But wait, I know at least two Democrats who have those bags.

The One-egg Omelette

The One-egg Omelette: When I'm at this house, I always eat at my desk. That's because I'm alone. I eat and read my email. It doesn't take long to eat when there is only one egg. I'm imagining being lean and lithe and light. But nothing helps. (I must have eaten the feather, because I didn't see it until I looked at the picture. Rocky at work again, my bird!)(I want to quick, blow it off the spoon, but it's too late!)