Dandelion Wine. Ray Bradbury

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      I dropped me forth in Illinois.

      A name with neither love nor grace

      Was Waukegan, there I came from

      And not, good friends, Byzantium.

      The poem continues, describing my lifelong relationship to my birthplace:

      And yet in looking back I see

      From topmost part of farthest tree

      A land as bright, beloved and blue

      As any Yeats found to be true.

      Waukegan, visited by me often since, is neither homelier nor more beautiful than any other small midwestern town. Much of it is green. The trees do touch in the middle of streets. The street in front of my old home is still paved with red bricks. In what way then was the town special? Why, I was born there. It was my life. I had to write of it as I saw fit:

      So we grew up with mythic dead

      To spoon upon midwestern bread

      And spread old gods’ bright marmalade

      To slake in peanut-butter shade,

      Pretending there beneath our sky

      That it was Aphrodite’s thigh …

      While by the porch-rail calm and bold

      His words pure wisdom, stare pure gold

      My grandfather, a myth indeed,

      Did all of Plato supersede

      While Grandmama in rocking chair

      Sewed up the raveled sleeve of care

      Crocheted cool snowflakes rare and bright

      To winter us on summer night.

      And uncles, gathered with their smokes

      Emitted wisdoms masked as jokes,

      And aunts as wise as Delphic maids

      Dispensed prophetic lemonades

      To boys knelt there as acolytes

      To Grecian porch on summer nights;

      Then went to bed, there to repent

      The evils of the innocent;

      The gnat-sins sizzling in their ears

      Said, through the nights and through the years

      Not Illinois nor Waukegan

      But blither sky and blither sun.

      Though mediocre all our Fates

      And Mayor not as bright as Yeats

      Yet still we knew ourselves. The sum?

      Byzantium.

      Byzantium.

      Waukegan/Green Town/Byzantium.

      Green Town did exist, then?

      Yes, and again, yes.

      Was there a real boy named John Huff?

      There was. And that was truly his name. But he didn’t go away from me, I went away from him. But, happy ending, he is still alive, forty-two years later, and remembers our love.

      Was there a Lonely One?

      There was, and that was his name. And he moved around at night in my home town when I was six years old and he frightened everyone and was never captured.

      Most importantly, did the big house itself, with Grandpa and Grandma and the boarders and uncles and aunts in it exist? I have already answered that.

      Is the ravine real and deep and dark at night? It was, it is. I took my daughters there a few years back, fearful that the ravine might have gone shallow with time. I am relieved and happy to report that the ravine is deeper, darker, and more mysterious than ever. I would not, even now, go home through there after seeing The Phantom of the Opera.

      So there you have it. Waukegan was Green Town was Byzantium, with all the happiness that that means, with all the sadness that these names imply. The people there were gods and midgets and knew themselves mortal and so the midgets walked tall so as not to embarrass the gods and the gods crouched so as to make the small ones feel at home. And, after all, isn’t that what life is all about, the ability to go around back and come up inside other people’s heads to look out at the damned fool miracle and say: oh, so that’s how you see it!? Well, now, I must remember that.

      Here is my celebration, then, of death as well as life, dark as well as light, old as well as young, smart and dumb combined, sheer joy as well as complete terror written by a boy who once hung upside down in trees, dressed in his bat costume with candy fangs in his mouth, who finally fell out of the trees when he was twelve and went and found a toy dial typewriter and wrote his first ‘novel.’

      A final memory.

      Fire balloons.

      You rarely see them these days, though in some countries, I hear, they are still made and filled with warm breath from a small straw fire hung beneath.

      But in 1925 Illinois, we still had them, and one of the last memories I have of my grandfather is the last hour of a Fourth of July night forty-eight years ago when Grandpa and I walked out on the lawn and lit a small fire and filled the pear-shaped red-white-and-blue-striped paper balloon with hot air, and held the flickering bright-angel presence in our hands a final moment in front of a porch lined with uncles and aunts and cousins and mothers and fathers, and then, very softly, let the thing that was life and light and mystery go out of our fingers up on the summer air and away over the beginning-to-sleep houses, among the stars, as fragile, as wondrous, as vulnerable, as lovely as life itself.

      I see my grandfather there looking up at that strange drifting light, thinking his own still thoughts. I see me, my eyes filled with tears, because it was all over, the night was done, I knew there would never be another night like this.

      No one said anything. We all just looked up at the sky and we breathed out and in and we all thought the same things, but nobody said. Someone finally had to say, though, didn’t they? And that one is me.

      The wine still waits in the cellars below.

      My beloved family still sits on the porch in the dark.

      The fire balloon still drifts and burns in the night sky of an as yet unburied summer.

      Why and how?

      Because I say it is so.

      Ray Bradbury

       Summer, 1974

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