Sirens of Suburbia

Fireflies. They lure us out. We chase them around on summer nights. Every time you see one, you run to where you saw it light up. But as soon as you get there, it vanishes into the background. Unable to be seen. So you stand. And stare. Waiting for the next flash. Then start running.

We cannot resist them. The thrill of the chase. How they are so easy caught. The way they innocently crawl around on your hand, then just flit away. Only to be caught again, mere moments later. If these things ever evolve, say, develop teeth. Or poison. Or some sort of lethal defense, the human race had better watch out.

I did this with my almost 4-year-old for the better part of an hour. She is more clever and mature than I. She tried reasoning with them. “Will you please come here so I can play with you?” Then standing on a rock, yelling, “Fireflies! Can I ask you a favor?” Then trying to entice them with a game. “Fireflies!” she said, “Do you want to play ball?” At which point, she picked up a baseball that had been laying in the grass and hurled it at the nearest cluster of them. When none of them caught the ball, she inquired, “Why won’t you guys play with me?”

Then she got smart.

“Dad. What do fireflies speak?”
Me: “Well, they don’t speak. They just flash their butts.”
Her: “Gross. But… Hey, dad. Get me the sprinkler.”
Me: “What? It’s too la…”
Her: “Dad! We’ll just pretend it’s my firefly butt. It will light up so I can talk to them.”

I don’t think I’ve been so proud of such an absurdly clever idea before. And then I realized. This is how I will do it. I will breed an army of fireflies. My daughter will command them to do my bidding. Together, we shall rule the world as father and daughter. And fireflies.

Queen of the fireflies

I thought we had a deal

It’s sort of an unwritten contract, really. But only one of us is living up to our side of the bargain. Yes, I’m talking to you, Spring.

You see, we set up you seasons so we would know what weather we’re supposed to have. Summer = sunny, hot, swimmy weather. Winter = cold, snowy, I-hate-you weather. Actually, Spring and Fall are just kind of the red-headed step-children of seasons. (Fall, more literally.) Your sole purpose is to be a transitional period. But you really should be the most pleasant of weather. You have no vocation aside from what we have set up as a description of what you should be. Essentially what I’m saying is that you wouldn’t even exist if we hadn’t made you up.

Summer lives up to its expectations. As does Winter. But, Spring, my friend, we need to talk. It’s time someone held you accountable for your lackadaisical attitude.

You show up late. Every year. You only have one time you’re expected to be at work each year. Yet you consistently fail to meet that expectation. And when you do finally decide to show up, you often take several random days off without any notice or approval. Many would have been fired for taking this same approach. And have you not noticed the economy? It’s not a good time, if there is one, for you to be so indolent and stolid. I mean, there is hardly a job market for a figment of mankind’s imagination who can’t even live up to the job description that is your very existence. Imagine Water that isn’t wet. Pigs that aren’t tasty. Fish that don’t swim. Birds that don’t fly. (Ok, scratch that last one. We’re going to have to have a discussion with some of your avian friends.)

In short, you need to get your act together. Why, if it weren’t for Winter filling in for you when you fail to appear, we wouldn’t have any weather at all. We don’t ask much. Some sun. Decent temperatures. A cool breeze. Perhaps most importantly, no snow. No frost on my car. But you can’t seem to manage this. None of the other seasons let us down quite the way you do.

Surely, you can appreciate the difficult situation you have placed us in. We don’t want to get rid of you. Things could be so good together. Make me proud. I know you can. And quit calling me Shirley.