by Tom Shafer
June 1, 2020
So, a couple of nights ago, I slid into my hot tub for the first time since a second hip replacement, gently and deliberately moving body parts so as not to fall while getting in. At one o’clock in the morning, the last thing I needed was an “I’ve fallen and can’t get up!” moment with no cellphone, closed windows, and a lengthy crawl back to safety.
My body is slowly but surely recovering, and showing signs that the replacement parts (back and hips) have done their jobs, significantly reducing all pain, providing hope that for the first time in four years, I may actually be on the verge of returning to life in many meaningful ways. It felt good to be in the soothing, bubbling waters, another sign that I am getting back to some sense of normalcy even given the ongoing pandemic and growing social unrest.
Then, in an instant, I witnessed my first firefly of the season, followed by a “shooting star,” an unfortunate piece of space dust (or space junk) burning up in Earth’s gravitational field. Unexpectedly, I was quickly transported back to memories from my youth.
A male firefly, compliments of treehugger
Sometimes memories are so strong you can taste them – like chalk in a primary school classroom – and this was one of those moments.
As a child, one of the first signs of summer was the seasonal hatching of fireflies. School was finished for the year, and backyard camping was just beginning. Though I lived in suburbia, the property directly behind my house was fifty to sixty acres of scrub field and woods, complete with a perfect, kid-friendly stream. Sometimes we (my brother and other neighborhood kids) would set up tents on the edge of the field, and when we felt slightly more daring, would pitch them in a clearing under the canopy of the treeline, a couple of football fields away from the relative safety of our collective backyards.
When fireflies were prevalent, we would catch them and watch the intermittent glow that seemed so magical. Of course, in a few years I would learn that their bioluminescence was merely neon advertisement for mating (not unsurprisingly, mostly the males). Invariably, we would catch a couple of fireflies and place them into Ball jars overnight (of course with breathing holes pounded through the lids), watching them light up the insides of our tents, their luminosity providing a nightlight of sorts. But, feeling guilty about their unprovoked captivity, I would always sneak out of my tent in the very early morning hours to release them back to freedom. As I did so, I marveled at the clarity of the nighttime sky for just a moment, eyeing it for a shooting star, appreciating the Milky Way splitting the dark carpet above me.
Back in the present, still soaking in the warm, bubbling water, another firefly memory wormed its way out of the dark recesses of my brain. It was early summer 2011, and I was driving west for some serious R & R. My wife Jane would be flying into Denver after I had been gone for a week or so, and we would spend a week touring Rocky Mountain National Park. My slow crawl to Colorado would take me camping and hiking through Illinois, Missouri, Iowa, Nebraska, and Wyoming, and my first stop of the trip was Abraham Lincoln’s home and tomb in Springfield, Illinois.
I had never made this journey before, which perhaps was slightly startling given my love of all things Lincoln. And, I have to admit that touring his house was surprisingly emotional.
The Lincoln homestead
After his assassination, wife Mary couldn’t return to Springfield, instead choosing to reside in Chicago. Son Robert put their home up for rent, but when he discovered that tenants were charging Lincoln sympathizers money to see the interior, he offered it to the state of Illinois – under the auspices that it be opened for free public tours and preserved in perpetuity, which it did until the National Park Service purchased it in 1971.
Ranger-led tours today allow visitors to see the Greek revival house as it appeared in the 1860s. So, as I walked through the formal parlor, the dining room, Mary’s and Abe’s separate bedrooms, the kitchen, and other outbuildings, I found these spaces littered with actual Lincoln artifacts, items that were there when the family left Springfield for the White House in 1860. These personal objects brought life to the home, making it feel like they were away for the day and might return at any time. An older woman in front of me wept when she saw toys that belonged to the Lincoln boys. I know I was moved just seeing the preserved house (actually the whole block), the place that Abe called home for seventeen years.
The Lincoln burial site
Of course, I toured Lincoln’s final resting place there in Oak Ridge Cemetery (Mary and three of the four boys are there as well), which is a large, single-storied memorial surmounted by a tall obelisk. The crypt itself sports many well-known casts of Lincoln and a beautiful stained glass window, and his body is protected by a beautiful red marble slab. It is an impressive memorial, though I have to believe that Lincoln himself might think it a bit pretentious for a simple country lawyer.
Leaving Springfield behind me, I needed to secure camping accommodations for the night, and the closest state park was the lengthily named Jim Edgar Panther Creek State Fish and Wildlife Area. When I pulled into the campground, a lone manager told me to select a site first, then register online. Pretty quickly, I found a lovely little place right on the lake, so grabbing my cellphone, I attempted to pull up the Illinois website that would register me for the evening. Unfortunately, cell service was spotty at best, and after numerous attempts (and dropped signals), I gave up and drove back to the campground host. I explained my dilemma, even offering to drive to an area where I could complete the registration. At that point (and noting that I was the only person camping on that Monday night), he told me not to worry about it, adding that I enjoy the free accommodations, compliments of the state of Illinois. I tried to pay him, but he explained that he wasn’t permitted to handle lodging transactions as a host, so I thanked him (and the state) for his generosity and bought a bag of wood.
My Panther Creek accommodations
After setting up my tent and eating a dinner of hot dogs and potato salad, I settled in for what would be a quiet, peaceful evening. I engaged my MP3 player, grabbed a beer from the cooler, and contemplated the first day of my trip westward. I had thoroughly enjoyed the Lincoln sites and looked forward to visiting and hiking the next day at Squaw Creek National Wildlife Refuge (now Loess Bluffs NWR) on the Missouri River near the quad-borders of Missouri, Iowa, Nebraska, and Kansas.
Ridgeline hike at Squaw Creek 
A very curious deer
After I started a fire (for ambience, not warmth, which was plentiful), I grabbed my cellphone and was surprised to be receiving a little bit of service. So, I opened up Space Junk to see what might be crossing the sky above me. Back in the day, this app not only tracked the movement of stars and other celestial objects, it also followed satellites and other large space debris orbiting the planet. According to current information, a numbered and alphabetized communication satellite would soon be appearing in the western sky. Scanning that area, I spied a “shooting star” first – then quickly realized that it was a firefly, the first one of the season. I traced it as it moved haltingly across the horizon, flashing intermittently, until it drifted out of sight.
Then, just as I returned my gaze westward, I located the satellite I had first been seeking. I monitored its movement as it slowly ambled across the sky, which took six or seven minutes total. As a kid, I had often looked for satellites, and vaguely remember seeing just one through my entire childhood. Now, here I was, many, many years later, impressed and somewhat astonished, using the latest technology to chart one with remarkable precision. And, to be honest, I was (and still am) impressed and astonished with the remarkable firefly! The rest of the evening was uneventful – if a campfire, a beautiful sky, a hatch of fireflies, and a quiet, peaceful night can ever be uneventful!
This whole scene jettisoned me back to those earlier campouts of my youth, my whole life in front of me, the world my oyster. And now, here I was, approaching an unexpected retirement from teaching, having experienced many great adventures – complete with lots of fires, shooting stars, and fireflies. Oh, and by the way, I’m not finished with great adventures!
Still today, though, the very first firefly of every year invokes these surprisingly strong, and cherished, memories.
R.E.M.
