Great story...I think you caught more than fireflies.

Conjures up a very vague memory of my early childhood with a friend that my mother did not exactly approve of named Doug. At the age of 6, Doug was without question the most destructive person I had ever met, a distinction that may hold true 30 years later.

There was a baseball field just 2 doors down from our house in Old Hickory (where my Dad parked the Vomit) that provided an excellent hunting ground for fireflies, or "lightning bugs" as we called them. While most kids would run around and try to catch the fireflies, maybe even put them in a jar, Doug always had a different, less docile angle.

I remember one night in particular when Doug realized that the netting in a badminton racquet (how hilarious to think that badminton racquets even existed on Debow Street in Old Hickory) was tight enough to hit a firefly 9 times out of ten (previous attempts with wiffle bats had proven unfruitful). Doug showed me this and I remember being amazed as he swung the racquet and the unfortunate firefly left a trail of "fire" in the wake of his low Earth orbit. We ran around for hours stalking these peaceful creatures and then painting the darkness with their luminous viscera.

Those were the best nights of childhood. Hot and humid with the sound of cicadas all around. Only two doors from home, but really off on your own. With a good friend doing something mildly dangerous and destructive. As we get older we spend our lives trying to re-capture those moments. Unfortunately, they can be as elusive as...fireflies.