Tonight I saw a symphony of fireflies, also called lightning bugs or glowworms, and though it lasted only about ten minutes at dusk and then tapered off for the night, it was an impressive display of what we call Nature. Surely such performances witness a divine orchestra leader we hardlly even wonder about.

It started slowly, with an occasional momentary glow under the trees. Then others joined in, coming from the grassy flat beyond. It built up to a sudden, almost simultaneous display from under the trees and the meadow, and then, as if on a signal, the display fell back to only an occasional glow until night fell and they disappeared.

It was short-lived, but it left an impression. I have seen them here on Long Island since I was a kid, but had never seen them build up to such a crescendo. It was a hymn so impressive I’m writing about it.

Dr. John Pierce was with me in school from the Second Grade right up to graduation from high school.  We grew up to be conservative in politics, as did all of our classmates that I know about, for some unexplainable reason but God.  John died in Long Island’s Great South Bay, swimming with his grandkids.  It was a great way for a family man like him to go, after finishing up a life with challenges met (he was my dentist), his family raised and happy, and relatives spoken for and content.

There was a time in his life when he debated what to do next, but we get cues when we’re in that situation.  His older brother was a dentist, and John must’ve taken that as a hint, as he was on his way.  He met a wonderful girl, and offered to support her, with a family, and she accepted.  She gave him three daughters and two sons, who carried on the tradition he helped start.

At the end of life we may wonder, what did we accomplish?  There are those who find life and the universe purposeless and empty.  Surely, John did not.  No doubt we agree with him.   But why is his life  so full?  Take stock, you have to consider what it was that he brought to this nexus, this junction.

The Alp horn, outside the organ or the piano, must be the largest musical instrument made.  It is eight feet long, made by boring the length of a spruce or pine sapling, and fitted with a hardwood mouthpiece.  It plays a mournful but resounding tune, with many of its pieces immortalized by Rossini in his famous opera, William Tell.  It was originally used in Europe by the Alpine folks, but can best be viewed today in Switzerland at many of their festivals.  It is said to have been used in the alpine valleys in lieu of church bells as a means of communication.

To hear a chorus of Alp horns playing is a memorable experience.  It resounds with the history of humankind, mentioned as early as 1527 AD in the books of a Cistercian monastery.  Human ingenuity goes back further, of course, but the Alpine regions were not in the forefront of inventions.

But if you like the history of music, to hear world-famous opera, get the Metropolitan Opera to bring back William Tell once again.  I don’t think modern day terrorists will go to see it to be inspired by Tell’s revolutionary ideas.  I don’t consider it dangerous.

Hillary Clinton won the popular vote over Donald Trump by several million—all accumulated in New York City and Los Angeles.  Do you think for a moment I want those two cities determining our President, and negating my vote, for the rest of my and your lives?

Representative Steve Israel, a former student of mine, spelled out distinctly how the Electoral College was designed to correct a one-sided vote during the time of slavery, what was then a racist remedy.  But we don’t live in the time of slavery; we live now, and the Electoral College, miracle of miracles, now serves to make the farmer’s vote count. The rest of America still has a say!  Trump won almost all of America, yet had we had a popular vote, Hillary would have won, just by those two cities, and the rest of America would have voted for nothing!

There are Democrats who now want to abolish the Electoral College, using the term racism.  But we don’t live in the Nineteenth Century.  That Electoral College survives as the last living hope of a total America where everybody is heard, not just select cities. It prevents the tyranny of the Two Cities.

They were here for the July 4^th weekend, my only son and his family, and my wife Loretta, at my urging, had ordered steak dinners so she wouldn’t spend all her time cooking.  Ben’s delicatessen delivered a superb dinner, and our sweet granddaughter, too young still to take part in adult conversations, entertained herself on her mother’s i-phone.

That’s a no-no in polite adult circles, but there were no companions her age, so her mother relented.  We talked about “my ship coming in,” a New England phrase for sure, when the clipper ships ran the China trade.  The thing is, though, that my clipper ship got lost, and my writing pursuits never produced the big bonanza I had hoped for. 

Loretta teases me about that.  Well, the friendly teasing companionship is worth the effort I put in, anyway.