It was on the evening of June 5, 2026.
I’m writing the date down because it’s one of those moments I don’t want to forget.
I’d spent the entire day working in the yard, doing everything possible to make it look respectable for another week. The truth is, no matter how much you mow, edge, trim, or pull weeds, nature always wins. At best, you earn yourself three or four days before the battle begins again.
As twilight settled over the neighborhood, I pushed my green John Deere mower back into its usual spot in the garage. Grass clippings that had clung stubbornly to the underside all afternoon now dropped onto the concrete floor in soft green clumps.
Normally, I would have swept them up, but not tonight. I was tired, sore, and in no mood for one more chore. The clippings could wait until morning.
Despite the exhaustion, there was a deep satisfaction that came from the day’s labor. The scent of cut grass, gasoline, and sweat lingered in the warm air—a mixture that always smelled like accomplishment.
I went inside, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and stepped onto the patio to admire my handiwork.
The first swallow washed away some of the day’s fatigue. Tomorrow would bring sore muscles and a touch too much sun, but that was tomorrow’s problem. For now, all I wanted was a quiet evening, a warm breeze, and the simple pleasure of sitting still.
That’s when I saw them.
The first lightning bugs of the year.
Some people call them fireflies. Entomologists might know them by their scientific names. Around here, though, they’ve always been lightning bugs.
And in my opinion, they’re the most magical insect on Earth.
There are certain things that announce the changing of the seasons. Falling leaves tell us autumn has arrived. The first snowfall whispers that winter is coming. Crocuses pushing through the soil remind us that spring has returned.
But lightning bugs are different.
The first one of the year feels less like a sign and more like a reunion.
Like seeing an old childhood friend after months of being apart.
A friend arriving with the wonderful news: Summer is finally here.
Long before I became familiar with lawn mowers and property taxes, my summer evenings were spent chasing these tiny lanterns through the dark.
Nothing compared to those summer nights as a child.
We’d spend all day swimming, riding bikes, and running through the neighborhood with our friends. Then, as dusk settled in and the air cooled, we’d race across our backyards to see who could catch the most lightning bugs.
Even now, I can still picture it. Me running barefoot through the grass in a pair of shorts and a tank top. Chlorine drying on my skin after a day at the pool. Honeysuckle drifting through the evening air.
School was still months away, and the first yellow bus of autumn existed somewhere in a distant future that didn’t matter yet.
The world felt endless. The possibilities felt endless. It was freedom in its purest form.
There was always a sense of wonder after catching one.
You’d slowly open your cupped hands and watch the tiny creature blink inside the darkness. Then it would crawl up the tip of your finger, pause for a moment as if gathering itself, and suddenly spread its wings and disappear back into the night.
Sometimes my friends and I would poke air holes into an empty mayonnaise jar and fill the bottom with fresh grass. One by one, we’d place our glowing treasures inside until the jar shimmered like a tiny lantern.
We’d carry it proudly through the yard as if we were explorers setting out on some great adventure.
Of course, we never kept them long. Once they grew sluggish from captivity, we’d unscrew the lid and release them back into the summer darkness, where they belonged.
But the best part of all came during what I called the magic hour. Usually around nine o’clock.
The sky would be nearly black by then, and the yard would erupt into a dazzling storm of flashing lights. Hundreds of tiny beacons drifted through the darkness, blinking in silent rhythm.
And then you’d spot him.
Granddaddy.
At least that’s what I called him.
He always seemed brighter than the others. Bigger, too.
Granddaddy was the undisputed king of lightning bugs, and catching him was nearly impossible.
Every time you got close, he’d rise just out of reach.
If you stretched your arm higher, he’d drift a little farther upward.
If you crept toward him quietly, he’d somehow know.
Looking back, I’m convinced he understood exactly how tall his pursuers were.
“This kid is four-foot-eight,” he seemed to say. “I’d better hover at six-foot-five.”
But on those rare occasions when someone actually managed to catch Granddaddy, there was no question who had won the evening.
For a few glorious minutes, they were the champion of summer.
Back in 2026, I finished my beer and looked across the yard. The flashes were multiplying now.
Dozens. Then hundreds. The same living constellation I remembered from childhood.
For a moment, fifty years disappeared.
I wasn’t thinking about work. I wasn’t thinking about mowing the lawn. I wasn’t thinking about responsibilities, bills, deadlines, or anything else adulthood had placed on my shoulders.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.
Granddaddy.
Hovering just above my head.
Without thinking, I stood and reached for him. He responded exactly as I remembered.
The moment my hand moved, he rose higher into the air, stopping just beyond my grasp.
Some things, apparently, never change.
I sat back down and laughed.
The lightning bugs continued their dance across the yard while memories of those carefree summer nights drifted through my mind.
And I found myself wondering how anyone could choose to spend an evening staring at a television or a phone screen during a time like this.
Especially when there is so much magic waiting in our own backyards.
© 2026 James E. Wood
go.Jimmy.go 