Lightning Bugs, Cicadas . . . and my Grandmother

I sat on my back porch tonight mesmerized by the light show taking place in the weeping willow tree next door.  Lightning bugs flashed on and off in what seemed rehearsed synchronization as they danced to the music of the cicadas.

I never see lightning bugs or hear cicadas that I’m not transported to my childhood summers at the farm.  My precious grandmother’s arms wrap around me, envelope me and hold me tight.  I loved that woman.  Still do. 

After catching jars full of lightning bugs, we spent sleepy summer nights in bed, cicadas singing in the darkness, willing sleep to break through the heat, grateful for the breeze blowing through the open window and through the buzz of the oscillating fan.  Too hot for body wrapping hugs then, she put her hand on my back and told me stories of her childhood.  About school in a one-room school house.  About her playhouse made out of tobacco sticks.  About Caledonia, her favorite doll. 

I asked my “Ma” one time—“What will I tell my little girl someday?  I don’t have good stories like you do?”  Ma rubbed my back and kissed my head—“You’ll have stories when the time comes.  You’re busy making them now.”  Then she added, “And, if need be, you can always use mine.”  She was right.  I’ve spent my life living stories to tell my child and, one day, my grandchildren . . . and anyone else who will sit still long enough to listen. 

So, Ma, I dedicate this storytelling adventure and Calendonia Press to you because YOU are where it all began.   I’ll always look for you in summer twilights.   I’ll feel your hugs in the lightning bugs and hear your voice in the cicadas.