I exchanged fireworks for fireflies.
They were a different sort than the ones in Rochester. In Rochester the fireflies are active only at dusk, for about an hour. And they have drawn out, waning sort of pulses. These ones blinked steadily all night long, in a big grassy field with waste-high grasses.
It was good to get out of Rochester, and at night it was so silent that I could hardly sleep. Just a couple miles out of town, the old burnt-out city gives way to farms and barns. Foot-high corn stalks, fields of soybeans. Towns with one stoplight, flashing red in the center of the sole intersection.
Our landlords have a cabin out there, on an open space preserve one of them started along with a dozen other people. They bought ninety-six acres of land twenty years ago. I told you they were co-op maniacs.
As we arrived we joined, as if in one continuous motion, a trek out to the pond. With a lashed-up zipline, diving board, and rope swing, and everyone frolicking in the pond it was like hippy pioneer camp. There was a huge potluck and much delicious food. I think everyone from Ant Hill came (except
ultraman) and we had some guests too. Our contributions: a rhubarb pie (Ben), a huge bowl of hummous (me, under Ben's direction), a chicken curry (Amol), and 1.5 gallons of premium beer.
At the cabin, the bat house, which had fallen down, was reinstalled. Under the porch are the parts to a make-shift hot tub, under construction.
Previously.