It’s dusk, and my barefoot children and I are chasing fireflies where they rise from the grass beneath the pecan trees in our backyard in rural North Carolina. Wielding cheap butterfly nets, we zero in on one insect and track it against the backdrop of cattle browsing in an adjacent pasture. The lightning bug sinks and drifts like a dust mote in a sunbeam, and when its light goes out, wecrouch to followits silhouette against the purpling sky. I capture the firefly and hand it off to my two-year-old daughter, Zoe, who cups her hands around it and forms a slot to put her eye up to. When the lightning bug flashes in her cupped hands, she looks up at me, rapt. She hands it off to her three-year-old brother, Stillman, and he has his moment with the mystery.
Perhaps it is the honey-summer air or simply one of those pangs a parent feels knowing that this is it, that this is what he will be recalling in decades to come when he talks about “when the kids were small.” Whatever it is, passing a firefly off to my children takes on a sudden and poignant weight.
We’re at another farm, the one in Upstate New York where my own parents handed off fireflies to me long ago. Summer is on the wane, so it’s too cold up here for fireflies, but there is plenty else to do. We hike, we ride horses, we catch frogs, and we play backyard games.
It has always been this way. My parents, both approaching 70, raised six of us while my father taught high school English, and they ran a small farm. In case that wasn’t hard enough, they farmed with 19th-century horse-drawn equipment, accepted leadership positions in their church, and took in foster kids, FreshAir kids, relatives, vagabonds, the elderly, rascals, and strays. Yet they always had time for us, and they always had time for fun.
They hiked us up mountains, floated us down rapids, and taught us how to do flips. Backyard campfires all summer long, board games all winter. Suppertimes were occasions for riddles and trivia and puns, and Dad read to us as a group on winter nights even when some of us were teenagers. I cannot remember a time when he came home, said, “I’m tired,” and sat down to rest. Neither the words nor the action had a place in my parents’ lexicon.
Today will be no different. My father hitches his ancient rawboned horse, Duke, to his buggy to take us for a ride down the busy country road. Dad bought Duke years ago from the Amish. Too old for much else, Duke still likes to pull; although knobby and lopsided, he trots along nicely. Half a mile from home, we look back down the road and see a blue dot gradually gaining on us. A moment later, the figure looms larger: It’s my mother cranking hard on her bicycle, and before we know it, she has caught us, grinning broadly, the kids cheering.
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After dinner, we pile onto a hay wagon, and Dad hitches it to the tractor and hauls us to a pond where we’ll fish in the rain. By the time we’re finished, the sun has set and the calves in the pasture around the pond are barely visible through a thickening fog.
I sit beside Mom on the wagon for the ride home, holding my kids. Mom gazes out at the mist with a dreamy look. “Do you remember playing in the fog?” she asks.
“Sure. All the time.”
“Oh, I was thinking of one time in particular. It was an evening like this. We saw the fog coming in, and we said, ‘C’mon! Let’s go out to the meadow and play in it.’ I remember playing hide-and-seek and calling to each other through the fog.”
I can’t recall that night, but it doesn’t matter. I have for visual aid the breathtaking scene before me: a yellow fingernail moon glowering high above the skeins of fog; pockets of low, slick pasture grass where the fresh-fallen rain still seeps; the smell of soil and hay and young life. I think of my parents, probably in their 20s, dropping everything to frolic in the fog with their children, and now here is Mom, decades later, recounting the fun, and I wonder, On that foggy evening long ago, did that feeling race over her, that knowledge that this is it, that this is what it will mean when I look back and say, “When the kids were small”?
Just found the worst page in the entire dictionary. What I saw was disgraceful, disgusting, dishonest, and disingenuous.
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My cat just walked up to the paper shredder and said, “Teach me everything you know.”
“Just because you can’t dance doesn’t mean you shouldn’t dance.” —Alcohol
@yoyoha (Josh Hara)
My parents didn’t want to move to Florida, but they turned 60 and that’s the law.
Q: What do you call an Amish guy with his hand in a horse’s mouth?
A: A mechanic.