There are certain things that simply belong to summer.

Fresh tomatoes still warm from the garden.

Homemade ice cream.

The happy sounds of children splashing in the water.

The crack of a bat at a baseball game.

Sweet tea and watermelon on a hot afternoon.

The smell of freshly cut hay.

Honeysuckle drifting on the evening breeze.

Backyard barbecues.

The distant hum of a lawn mower somewhere down the road.

And, if you ask me . . . .

Butterflies and fireflies.

I’ve often wondered if they somehow arrange their schedules together.

Butterflies seem perfectly content to work the day shift, drifting from flower to flower beneath bright blue skies.

Fireflies, on the other hand, don’t seem to punch the clock until the sun has gone down. Just about the time the butterflies are calling it a day, the little lanterns begin reporting for the evening shift.

I’ve always thought that was rather clever of Mother Nature.

When I was growing up, one of summer’s greatest adventures didn’t require money, batteries, or a screen.

Just an old glass jar.

We’d punch a few air holes in the lid and spend the evening chasing little blinking lights through the backyard until our jar sparkled like a tiny floating constellation.

Looking back now, I don’t remember ever keeping them very long.

The real fun was catching them.

Watching them glow.

Showing them proudly to whoever happened to be nearby.

Then opening the lid and watching every little lantern drift back into the warm summer night where it belonged.

Years later, when my own children came along, the tradition continued.

Instead of glass jars, each had a little screened collecting cage with rounded wooden ends and a simple wooden floor. Handmade from a craft show one Saturday afternoon. The seller must have been ecstatic when he saw four young kids running to the table.

The screened carriers were far more comfortable for our tiny visitors — and far easier for eager little hands to carry around the yard.

Each child had their own. Each proudly filled it with tiny blinking lights.

And before bedtime, we’d open the little doors and watch every firefly return to the evening.

After all . . . .

They had work to do.

Butterflies were never something I wanted to catch. It just never seemed right.

They always seemed happiest exactly where they were — drifting across a flower garden, floating over a field, or stopping just long enough to admire a blossom before continuing on their mysterious travels.

I’ve always been content simply to watch them.

Perhaps that’s part of their charm. Floating and fluttering here and there from flower to flower. They never seem to be in a hurry.

Thinking more about it though, butterflies may work the day shift in brilliant, living colors, but I’ve always suspected the fireflies may have the more magical job.

But I have noticed something over the years.

Summer evenings don’t sparkle quite the way they once did.

Where I remember dozens — perhaps hundreds — of little lanterns drifting through the backyard, today I’m grateful to spot even a handful.

And this summer, unless I’ve somehow managed to miss them, I haven’t seen a single Monarch butterfly.

I hope they’re simply visiting somewhere else for a while.

I surely hope so.

Perhaps kindness isn’t only measured by how we treat one another.

Sometimes it’s measured by how we care for the little corners of the world entrusted to us. And for the butterflies, birds, bees, and fireflies that quietly inhabit and call those places home.

Maybe that’s one reason I enjoy seeing people plant flowers.

Or leave a corner of the yard just a little wild.

Or set out a birdbath.

Or grow a patch of milkweed.

Or put out a bird feeder in winter.

Or place a broken flower pot in the garden for a toad to call home.

None of us can do everything.

But every one of us can do a little something, don’t you think?

And little somethings have a way of adding up and making a big difference along the way. At least for few little somethings flittering about here and there, perhaps.

I’d like to think there will always be butterflies working the day shift . . . .

 . . . . and fireflies faithfully reporting for the evening shift.

I’d like future children to know the excitement of running barefoot through the grass on a warm July night carrying a little cage filled with tiny blinking lights.

And I’d like them to pause, every now and then, to admire a Monarch butterfly drifting lazily across a garden on a sunny afternoon.

Those are ordinary wonders worth noticing.

And they’re certainly worth protecting.

Till next time then —

Jim (and Red!)

 

P.S. from Little Red Bear

Chewy is still trying to decide whether he belongs on the butterfly’s day shift or on the night shift with the fireflies.

So far, he has mostly been taking breaks between both it seems.

—  Red 🐾

Images have been created for this piece with the assistance of AI . . .  lovingly prepared and styled for Honey Hill Country and the world of Little Red Bear.