“It’s not just about the bugs. It’s about us. We’re supposed to be more sensitive. To be more like Hashem”
Summertime in Forest Hills, New York, was always marked by the musical jingle of the Good Humor ice cream truck, endless rounds of stoop ball and running bases, and — most magical of all — the nightly firefly hunt. We’d marvel at this elongated bug that carried its own illumination, flew upright, and hovered in place, still enough to land on our fingers. It even had a cool official name: lampryidae. With black-brown wings, an orange head, and a glowing bulb at the bottom, the firefly was the VIP of backyard wildlife.
The typical summer evening in Queens was muggy, not that the heat really bothered us kids, and it was better than being indoors, because who put on air conditioning besides when company came to visit? We would sit on our porches on Loubet Street (we weren’t old enough to leave the block on our own), waiting in anticipation. The sky slowly darkened, shades of light peach and soft orange morphing to darker crimson, purple, and then finally, pitch indigo. And all the while, we’d peer straight ahead, excited to catch that first glimpse of bioluminescence.
ITwould start with one isolated blink of light as the day waned.
We’d catch a glimpse of a glimmer to the right. Moments later, to the left, two or three at a time. As twilight descended, the bugs’ lights were more visible, until the sky was finally dark and you could clearly see the yard-full of intermittent pinpricks of light, a silent orchestra of design climaxing in the crescendo of a firefly display on in full force.
Create a free account to keep reading.
