In Memory of a Firefly | Grandma Kouzi
I. My Story with Fireflies
I was, in a sense, ‘delivered’ to the fireflies—passively ushered along to Renai Township, a renowned haven for them. Initially, I failed to see why we were required to lodge in a village guesthouse. The trip was meant to be a conference-organised excursion, but with accommodation costs falling on us, it felt rather steep for my budget. Had I had the freedom to choose, I would have declined; only the area’s poor transport links, which would have stranded me inside the village, and a lingering sense of etiquette kept me there.
As dusk settled, I trailed somewhat hazily behind the group out of the village. The path narrowed as it curved away, entirely devoid of streetlamps. Ditches flanked the shrinking track, their banks thick with tall, dense grass, where pinpricks of firelight began to flicker into existence. A northerner such as myself had never witnessed anything like it; I found myself exclaiming in sheer wonder. The rest of the group reacted much the same, irrespective of whether they hailed from the south or north, had encountered fireflies previously, or knew what to expect.
Venturing deeper, as the woods drew closer, the track grew tighter, the undergrowth thicker, and the air heavy with moisture. The fireflies multiplied until, upon reaching the tree line, I was utterly arrested by the spectacle—a ‘tide’ of fireflies, numbering in the tens of thousands or more, churning and swelling like ocean waves. Stand perfectly still and silent, and you would find yourself enveloped by it.
I, along with everyone around me, fell into a profound hush. The awe was so complete that words simply died in our throats.
A firefly’s life, following a long period of dormancy, grants it merely three to seven days of luminous flight. Yet I was privileged to share that fleeting span with tens of thousands of them.
First light the following morning found me returning to those foothills alone. I went not to gaze upon that rippling sea of luminescence once more, but to offer quiet gratitude to the land that had conjured such a vision, and to bid it a solemn farewell. It was one of life’s rare, unrepeatable gifts—a moment destined never to recur.
Halfway through, our leader called a halt and asked everyone to switch off their headlamps. The rainy night was pitch black, yet firefly lights hovered above us, hundreds of them twinkling like scattered stars. A band of night walkers from the city stood in silence amidst the rain for a long while.
During my two years farming in Yilan, I walked the fields at night countless times. In early summer, I even deliberately sought out damp, waterlogged patches of weeds and reeds, hoping to ‘stumble upon’ firefly lights, but to no avail. Fellow farmers told me that fireflies are extremely demanding of their environment, and behind every famous firefly-spotting destination in Taiwan lies a long process of ecological restoration. Given that Shengou Village in Yilan, where I stayed, hosts Taiwan’s largest community of small-scale farmers practising eco-friendly agriculture, it still seemed insufficient for fireflies.
Fireflies are sensitive not only to chemical fertilisers and pesticides, but to human activity as well. Where humans advance, fireflies retreat; they are nowhere to be found in densely populated areas. As the poet Du Mu wrote, ‘With a light gauze fan, she chases the drifting fireflies’—that courtyard must have been vast enough, and distant enough from human habitation.
Three years ago, I finally came into possession of Evil Man Valley. The rural village roads lack street lighting—a drawback for others, but a blessing for me, as it means staying further from light pollution. On quiet nights, I sit alone in the dark, feeling as though I am suspended alone between heaven and earth. When a stray firefly occasionally flickers by in early summer, a special sense of gratitude swells within me; this is already more than I ever expected from this piece of land.
II.“Yellow Cucumber Beetle” Pest Control Diary
In the first year, nature played along with my relaxed attitude and delivered exactly what I’d half-expected: absolutely nothing to harvest. The second year was even stranger: after sowing, I couldn’t so much as spot a single gourd or bean seedling. For a “seasoned old farmer”, this was utterly baffling. Just where had all those seeds I’d buried gone?
This is my third spring, and armed with the lessons of the past two years, I can no longer afford to take such a hands-off approach. Right from the onset of spring, I drew up a clear plan: the early plantings would be tended with care, the climbing vines were given trellises, and the beds along the edges were allocated for various melons and beans. I have a particular fondness for pumpkins, so last year I saved seeds from every tasty one, sorting them meticulously into packet after packet. The seeds weighed well over half a kilo in total. Anyone laying eyes on this stash would laugh at me: “That’s enough seed for several acres!”
This spring’s rains were plentiful, and the seeds sprouted soon after sowing. Walking the fields and seeing the shoots pushing through the soil, I even began to fret, “What on earth will I do with all this?” But the joy was short-lived. Just as in the previous two years, the melon and bean shoots suddenly “vanished”. Closer inspection revealed they had been devoured—not nibbled away gradually, but completely wiped out in a single night.
Seeds were plentiful, so I went ahead with a second sowing. By the time this round of trial and error was underway, over twenty days had slipped by, and we were well into late March. This time, I deliberately dropped extra seeds into each planting hole, reasoning: “Sow plenty, and surely a few will make it through.” But alas, once they sprouted, they were wiped out once again.
The tender shoots were being decimated by a swarm of yellow flying beetles. I have no clear photographs of them. For one, they’re highly alert and notoriously difficult to catch on camera; for another, I loathe them so thoroughly that whenever I spot one, I crush it on the spot without a second thought for taking a picture.
By the time I reached my third sowing in April, I’d taken the time to look the pest up online: the yellow-striped cucumber beetle. The name is rather ominous—it conjures an image of a malevolent yellow insect simply sitting in wait, guarding my melons as they try to push through the soil.
I’d heard that wood ash works as a deterrent, so the moment the seedlings broke the surface, I dusted them generously, effectively giving them a heavy smoky-eye makeup look. But it proved useless. This blurry snapshot captures a beetle happily munching away on leaves thoroughly coated in ash.
Before I knew it, early spring had slipped into early summer. After three rounds of setbacks, the just over a pound of pumpkin seeds I had put aside were all scattered into the soil, yet not a single sprout appeared. I was eventually forced to turn to local friends for help, only to be given another pound of pumpkin seeds to keep trying. This time, unwilling to leave things to chance, I bought dedicated insect netting and erected protective frames over the seedlings everywhere. The survival rate of the tender shoots beneath the mesh did indeed improve, but what I had not anticipated was that blight would strike next.
Rousing myself to research the yellow cucumber beetle’s entire lineage, I discovered that this creature “inflicts damage on various cucurbits, with watermelons, pumpkins, melons and cucumbers being the hardest hit. It also targets Brassicaceae, Solanaceae, Fabaceae, sunflowers, citrus, peaches, pears, apples, fig trees, mulberry trees and so on…” This is no mere “cucumber beetle”; it’s practically a “Yellow Sentinel” – perfectly aware that my pesticide-free approach leaves me powerless, it has simply camped out on my patch, devouring whatever I dare to sow.
What’s even worse is that the beetle is a menace at every life stage: “Both adults and larvae cause damage, with adults favouring cucumber leaves and petals, while larvae burrow underground to feast exclusively on melon roots.” I might try growing a little bit of everything, but to the yellow cucumber beetle, my garden is simply an all-you-can-eat buffet that turns away no dish. It is, in every conceivable way, my absolute kryptonite. Then there’s its active season, which stretches so long it might as well have been plotted by a legion of villains: it overwinters right in my fields, emerging in early spring once temperatures hit 6–10°C – perfectly timed to coincide with my first spring sowings. For months on end, it reigns supreme on my land. In a mild climate like Fujian’s, save for a brief hibernation, it breeds two to three generations a year. Adults and larvae take turns wreaking havoc, making for a year-round plague…
While venting my frustrations to some locals, I overheard a few of them referring to it as a “firefly”. An offhand comment that completely shattered my worldview. A quick online search confirmed it: “the yellow cucumber beetle, also known as the yellow-footed yellow cucumber beetle, is commonly referred to as ‘huángyíng’ or ‘guāyíng’.” I had always assumed that *yíng* (莹) and *yíng* (萤) were one and the same. In an instant, the enchanting glow of the night fireflies lost all its charm – they were no longer dancing sprites of light, but rather soul-rending ghost fires.
The night before, returning from a swim, I spotted a flickering glow in the grass beside the quail pen. Without hesitation, I rushed over and gave it a kick. The creature went still, yet a faint shimmer remained. I kicked once, then again, and again…
I am writing this little piece now precisely because I took the time to properly research the yellow cucumber beetle and consulted a few local friends who practically function as walking encyclopaedias. Only then did I realise that this “yíng” was not the same as that “yíng”. The locals call the beetle a firefly simply because of a passing resemblance; in reality, it possesses no bioluminescence whatsoever. True fireflies, by contrast, are not only the luminous fairies of legend but also highly beneficial creatures whose larvae feed exclusively on pests like small snails and snail eggs.
Alas, I am sorry, fireflies. I was wrong. I offer these words as both a mourning and an apology. Alas!
All illustrations in this article are by the author unless otherwise stated.
Editor: Wang Hao