Outside on our farm the other night, my thirteen-year-old son saw tiny yellow lights flashing intermittently around the field, and exclaimed, “Look, Dad!  Fireflies!”  I was so ashamed of myself I wanted to dress in sackcloth and sit in a heap of ashes.  What kind of job have I done as a  proud Southern father, if my own son knows no better than to call those flitting beacons of the night sky “fireflies?”  Not a very good one, I must confess.

I don’t know what kind of term “fireflies” is, but where I come from, it’s as alien as Sanskrit.  “Lightning bugs” is what the fascinating creatures are.  I know my son has heard the correct term – we live in the countryside and lightning bugs are a staple of the warm night skies.  We’ve observed them together many times, and I have never, ever, called them “fireflies.”  Why, then, did he default to the generic when he could’ve used the magical and lyrical term “lightning bugs?”  I don’t know the answer, but I think it is a shame.