“No, they all blink at a different rate, depending on species,” Sammy said.
Me-“Ahhhh, it makes sense. So it’s like different scents of aftershave attract different ladies at the pub?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s just that different species of lightning bugs flash a different light pattern to be sure to attract their own species in the mating process. I love watching them, and your place is like mine, an open spot in the middle of a forested area. They like that, as they can get out in the open and share the message.”
“Like a dance club floor to show your moves, in turn, bringing in prospective dance partners?”
“No. Well, yeah; sort of.” I could sense his smirking frustration, realizing that I was messing around as he waxed profound about his wealth of knowledge about most species of bugs, and birds, too.
We drove in silence for a while, moving on from the talk of the June entomological dance of delight as we headed toward a small town just off Route 2 to pick up a screen door.
I bet we talked about lightning bugs for at least twenty minutes over our last couple of gatherings, both of us amazed by this year’s crop.
At my house, the backyard is alight with activity. Last night was more of the same, the silent heat that has settled over Maine harkened back to summer nights of my youth.
I’ve moved on from chasing them, later incarcerating them in a jar with a few sprigs of grass or leaves. I did catch one a few nights ago, but only to prove to myself that I still had youthful skills. He/she was sent on his way to continue the mating dance and light show.
I sat in the dark on the patio looking skyward, lazily trying to determine if the thirty various bugs flying around the backyard were flashing the same signs, but I couldn’t determine if I was a host to many species or just one. It didn’t matter as I was not interested in knowing their private business, just the big picture, which was, that there would be more fireflies— soon— if the illuinated indicators of amorous behavior were correct.
Ellie pays them no mind, of course. While I couldn’t see her out in the darkened reaches of the backyard, I could hear her whiffing something, snorting out a sneeze to clear out her sniffer for the next odor of business.
I have to say her name intermittently. She needs to know that I am paying attention to her travels. If I don’t audibly mention her name, drawing it out, seasoned with a little bit of scolding suspicion, she will wander out of the yard to get deeper into the growth on the edges.
“Ellllieeeeee, stick around,” I say. The hope is to keep her away from an errant skunk or porcupine; I’ve seen a bunch this season and smelled even more.
The skunks here don’t go to bed at sun-up, nope. They stay up, and go to bed late.
One local black & white marauder has made it their business to tear into my garbage bags soon after setting them out by the road.
Yeah, once a week the big truck comes up the dirt road to rid us of our waste; I’ve never had this luxury, especially this far from what tourists might consider a town. I, of course, know that Maine towns are more like a state of mind than an actual thriving center of commerce. I have a theory that most towns here were created simply because someone in 1811 got mad at a neighbor and drew new boundaries, creating their own municipal enterprise.
I digress.
Broad daylight is not typical skunk cruising time. So, I’ve had to leave the bags in a can since the second debacle of cleaning up eggshells and watermelon rinds.
All in all, I’m ready for the over-100 degrees today will bring. It is a minor factual correction of the tales I’ve shared with outastatahs about June’s cool evenings and warm days, but our normal returns tomorrow. No bigs.
Tonight should be a great firefly night, and the heat should send the skunks into their shaded beds before the sun gets too high.
Look for the positives, I say.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC