A Letter from My 93-year-old Self

By Sara Phile

Dear Renee,

Here I am, and there you are. You have always had a problem with just being, and you still do. Could you just be for a minute, though? Try.

Your best friends at 33 are still your best friends at 93. What a gift. Cherish every talk, every coffee date, even every argument. They aren’t going anywhere. Your are lucky.

You will never make much money, but you are OK with that. You are pretty smart with money, and will continue to be. In a few years he will want to go to Alaska. You will say no, that you can’t afford it, and while it may seem like you can’t, just go. Go.

Speaking of him, he is one of the best friends I just mentioned. You and he will finally agree on that 10-year-long discussion that keeps coming back. It will be resolved. However, that other one?  The one that you can’t even think about right now or you will go into a hysterical fit, it won’t be resolved, but you will learn to just let it go, and you will be OK.

Your kids will be OK. Stop worrying about where they will end up, what they will do or not do. Let them be, please. Also, don’t be too quick to give your opinions on well . . . you’ll see. But for now, be stingy with your opinions. It’s hard for you, I know, but if you hold back, you will have more peace, and peace is always your goal.

You think you love your boys, and you do. You truly love them the best you can. Just wait until you meet your grandkids, though . . .

Right now, you think you have known grief and pain, and you have. You really have. Later, you will know it even deeper. You will have tools though, that you didn’t have at 33. You will be stronger.

I know it’s cliché, and you aren’t big on clichés, but the things you worry about now — past failures, future potential failures, what others think or don’t think, simply aren’t worth your time and energy. I know it’s easier said than done (again, sorry about the cliché), but you need to let go.

Your body will hurt like hell some days, especially your back. Keep practicing yoga and remember that you don’t have to run faster or lift more weight than the person next to you. Why must you always think that you are in a competition?

You love the Shakespeare quote “To thine own self be true,” but at this point in your life, you haven’t fully grasped the meaning and application. You think you know yourself, but you still have some weeding out and ironing to do. You will know soon, though.

As soon as you are able to realize and accept that your self-worth isn’t wrapped up in others’ acceptance or rejection of you, you will start to be at peace. And peace, my friend, is your goal. Once you find peace, you won’t want to let it go, and you will wish you had grasped onto it much sooner.

Today, this very day, is a Saturday in August and you are living in humid North Carolina. Your boys are 12 and 7. They are still in bed right now, but go wake them up with a water gun. They hate it when you do this, but deep down they think it’s funny too. Ask them what they want to do today, and do it. Even if, especially if, it costs money. Don’t analyze. Just go with it. You won’t get these years back.

Love and peace,

Your 93-year-old self

P.S. Extra pieces of red velvet cake aren’t going to kill you. Worrying about it just might.  PS

Sara Phile teaches English composition at Sandhills Community College.

Catching Lightnin’ Bugs

By any descriptive name, they’re pure summer evening magic

By Ray Linville

I never heard the word “firefly” until I was an overgrown adult. When I was living in the North, someone in the winter mentioned that he missed seeing fireflies.

I don’t understand why anyone would want to refer to a lightnin’ bug by any other name. The term “lightnin’ bug” is so descriptive (even if it is a beetle, not a bug — but certainly not a fly). It’s one of the few names that perfectly describes the creature.

You can say “lightnin’ bug” only once to a 2-year-old, and she will immediately know what you’re talking about. “There it is,” my granddaughter said when I asked, “Where’s the lightnin’ bug?” without any explanation.

It’s a familiar sight on summer evenings at dusk as small children marvel at the blinking lights that slowly fly above the ground to heights where they disappear from sight. In a less gentle world, children once even captured these critters to make a lantern. It would be the only light permitted in a dark room and provided the perfect setting for telling tall tales, particularly ghost stories.

When I was growing up, catching lightnin’ bugs was the summer sport of my neighborhood. From older kids, I learned early that using a Mason jar was the perfect way to catch them. The glass jar showed the evening’s collection as it increased and also let the blinking lights harmonize in a silent rhythm. It’s hard to imagine that simply staring into a jar could be so entertaining.

The lesson of catching lightnin’ bugs was not complete until we agreed to release them into the air before we went inside our houses at bedtime. It was the first way that generations of future anglers learned a “catch and release” policy before holding a rod and reel. Even though a lightnin’ bug has a life span of only two months, as kids we were convinced that it would live forever if we didn’t harm it.

As parents, when you think your kids are ready for a “birds and bees” discussion, just remember the lightnin’ bugs. All that summer magic that they produce is simply flashy flirting — males flash their lights to attract the ladies, who reply with their own flashes.

More than half of the people in North Carolina use “lightnin’ bug” exclusively as the name in contrast to about 6 percent who use only the term “firefly.” (The others use both names interchangeably.) In western parts of our country, firefly is exclusively used. Of course, they’re confused because fireflies, er, lightnin’ bugs, that live in California and places in the West don’t light up like the species in our area.

If you want to catch a flashing bug, use a Mason jar, and be sure to call it a lightnin’ bug. Just don’t call it a firefly.  PS

Ray Linville writes about Southern food, history, culture and, sometimes, Mason jars.