It’s hard to figure out, any more, what to write about in a Fourth of July column.
If I write that what happened in 1776 was a “No Kings” protest in the truest sense of the word and rue the fact that too many people these days think that replacing a president with a monarch is a perfectly wonderful idea, I’ll be accused of suffering from Trump Derangement Syndrome.
If I write that there’s no escaping the firework madness in the weeks before and after Independence Day and that even though my dog is not the nervous type she still paces and whimpers the whole time the BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! is going on, I’ll be told to get over it. It’s all in good fun. Fireworks are patriotic, right?
Speaking of fireworks, if I write that the bee balm I planted two summers ago has thrived and spread and is now in full bloom and looks exactly like exploding red fireworks and if I also point out that hummingbirds love bee balm but deer don’t, readers might yawn and turn from the editorial page to the comics.
So I’ve decided not to write a Fourth of July column at all this year. No Thomas Jefferson or Patrick Henry or Betsy Ross. No King George III. No Lexington and Concord or Bunker Hill or Trenton or Saratoga or Kings Mountain or Yorktown. No Minutemen. No Hessians. No midnight ride of Paul Revere. No waiting to fire until you see the whites of their eyes.
Nope. I’ll save all that for another Fourth of July. Because this year I’m going to write about fireflies.
Some people—me, for instance—call them lightning bugs. And speaking of lightning, even good spellers are sometimes in a quandary over whether that word should have an “e” in it. Here’s the rule: only add an “e” if you’re talking about making something lighter, like hair color or paint color or someone’s load. Or if you’re referring to a term that, during pregnancy, means a baby has moved lower in the mother’s body in preparation for being born.
Lightning bugs are often at their peak around Independence Day. The larvae live underground all winter and then emerge and mature in spring. Adult lightning bugs begin flashing to attract a mate in late May or early June and continue, in diminishing numbers, through August. The warmer and wetter the weather, the more often and enthusiastically they’ll flash.
So is it true that we see fewer lightning bugs these days than when we were kids? Yes. As to why, it’s not because we didn’t punch enough holes in the lids of the mayonnaise jars where we imprisoned them.
The real answer is two-fold: loss of habitat and too much artificial light.
If we wish for more lightning bugs in our yards and in the big wide world, there are things we can do. First, we must stop with the poison. When we poison dandelions and other “weeds,” we kill lightning bugs, too. When we poison pesky insects and rodents, we kill other creatures, too. We should also consider mowing the grass less often. Allowing a portion of our yards to grow wild. Leaving autumn leaves on the ground instead of blowing and bagging and hauling them off. Lighting bug larvae live under those leaves and under downed trees and brush piles, too, if we don’t feel the need to burn them.
We can turn off as many exterior lights as possible. Do driveways really need to be illuminated all the way from the street to the house? Do porch lights and spotlights really need to shine from dusk to dawn? Do we advocate for public and commercial lighting that points at the ground rather than the sky so as not to confuse bats and birds and bugs?
If we’re aiming to save the planet, saving the lightning bugs just might be a good place to start.
(July 5, 2025)