I first read Ray Bradbury's semi-autobiographical novel "
Dandelion Wine"
over 30 years ago. It made an impression on me, and if asked during
the interim what my favorite Bradbury story was, I would have answered,
"Dandelion Wine", though I'd read it only once
heretofore. I've been reading it aloud with a friend this month over
cigarettes and wine, a chapter or two a night. It's a magical book,
with Bradbury describing life growing up in a Midwestern town during
the early 20th century through the eyes of a pre-adolescent boy. It's
almost more poetry than prose. It has been remarked that the town
Bradbury was writing about was the same town that Sinclair Lewis
pilloried in his book, "The Jungle". Clearly Lewis was not writing from
the perspective of a 12 year old boy.
The title of the book
comes from the annual process of making dandelion wine from the weeds
proliferating on the summer lawns of the neighborhood.
Dandelion wine. The words were summer on the tongue. The
wine was summer caught and stoppered. And now that Douglas knew he was
alive, and moved turning through the world to touch and see it all, it
was only right and proper that some of his new knowledge, some of this
special vintage day would be sealed away for opening on a January
day with snow falling fast and sun unseen for weeks or months and perhaps
some of the miracle by then forgotten and in need of renewal. Since
this was going to be a summer of unguessed wonders, he wanted it all
salvaged and labeled so that any time he wished, he might tiptoe down in
this dank twilight and reach up his fingertips.
And there, row upon row with the soft gleam of flowers opened at
morning, with the light of this June sun glowing through a faint skin of
dust, would stand the dandelion wine.Peer through it at the wintry day -
the snow melted to grass, the trees were reinhabited with bird, leaf,
and blossoms like a continent of butterflies breathing on the wind. And
peering through, color sky from iron to blue.
Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of
course, the smallest tingling sip, for children; change the season in
your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in.
I was struck last
evening when we read a chapter dealing with the final day of the
street trolley, and the advent of buses in Bradbury's boyhood town. One
sunny summer day, the old trolley came down the street,
stopped, and the aging operator called the neighborhood boys and girls aboard for a
last ride, free of charge. When the vehicle reached the
end of the line, and the kids expected Old Mr. Trillen to turn back to
town, the operator told them that today, he was going to continue on,
out of town, on tracks long abandoned, and he eventually stopped the
trolley at an
abandoned country park. He then handed out pre-packed lunches,
and they all enjoyed an afternoon in the country before returning to
town. On the return trip, the sound of the trolley's horn, the colors
of its seats, the burnish of it's brass, and the patina of the woodwork
were savored by the children as never before, knowing it would be their
last opportunity to do so. An end of an era was
passing, perhaps the first these kids had ever witnessed, and they were
shocked that the world they inhabited could change so abruptly, and
without forewarning. It's a
theme that crops up more than once in the book. Life changes, or is
threatened in some way, fear intrudes, then some kind of personal
resolution allows the characters to accept their fates and move on.
It's
kind of like that at TPMCafe right now, as Josh makes his decisions,
(for
whatever reasons), to keep the Cafe at all, or to change it in
some fundamental way. We as readers and writers look around and see the
patina of this place's architecture, and the assemblage of characters
that inhabit it, and
wonder, "How could this not just keep going on forever?". It feels not
unike the first day of summer vacation when we were schoolboys and
schoolgirls ourselves, when we bid goodbye to our friends and
acquaintances who lived across town, and we wonder what life will be
like
without them for 3 months. Will they still be there in the fall, or
will happenstance transport them from our lives, to become one more
memory of how things were before? Will the vibe, gestalt, general
bonhomie remain the same if any of our schoolmates fail to return after
that summer break? "Dandelion Wine" paints a poignant picture of just
these kinds of events that surround all of our lives and intrude as
inexorably as death itself into the most perfect, in-control life you
could design for yourself.
So, this hiatus which is about to be
imposed on the community during whatever restructuring occurs here,
(and I truly hope we are reincarnated in whatever format JMM sees fit),
feels a little like that. Community is a fragile thing to tamper with
wholesale. It feels like we're all going for that last trolley ride
right now. Senses are heightened. We see each other more acutely, and
recognize what a remarkable assemblage of voices have we have aggregated
here over the years, and know that each one will be missed should he or
she fail to make the return trip. Not just missed, but that this whole
online microcosm will be different were that to happen. But maybe that's just life.
So
Josh, If you're going to keep this trolley running, do the fixes as
quickly as possible. Thanks. And I hope I see the rest of you after
the break. And don't forget to vote should the hiatus extend past election day.
