Ray Brudbury -- Dandelion Wine

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Dandelion Wine
Ray Brudbury
For Walter I. Bradbury
neither uncle nor cousin
but most decidedly
editor and friend.
JUST THIS SIDE OF BYZANTIUM
an introduction
This book like most of my books and stories, was a surprise. I began to learn the
nature of such surprises, thank God, when I was fairly young as a writer. Before that, like
every beginner, I thought you could beat, pummel, and thrash an idea into existence.
Under such treatment, of course, any decent idea folds up its paws, turns on its back,
fixes its eyes on eternity, and dies.
It was with great relief, then, that in my early twenties I floundered into a word-
association process in which I simply got out of bed each morning, walked to my desk,
and put down any word or series of words that happened along in my head.
I would then take arms against the word, or for it, and bring on an assortment of
characters to weigh the word and show me its meaning in my own life. An hour or two
hours later, to my amazement, a new story would be finished and done. The surprise was
total and lovely. I soon found that I would have to work this way for the rest of my life.
First I rummaged my mind for words that could describe my personal nightmares,
fears of night and time from my childhood, and shaped stories from these.
Then I took a long look at the green apple trees and the old house I was born in and
the house next door where lived my grandparents, and all the lawns of the summers I
grew up in, and I began to try words for all that.
What you have here in this book then is a gathering of dandelions from all those
years. The wine metaphor which appears again and again in these pages is wonderfully
apt. I was gathering images all of my life, storing them away, and forgetting them.
Somehow I had to send myself back, with words as catalysts, to open the memories out
and see what they had to offer.
So from the age of twenty-four to thirty-six hardly a day passed when I didn’t stroll
myself across a recollection of my grandparents’ northern Illinois grass, hoping to come
across some old half-burnt firecracker, a rusted toy, or a fragment of letter written to
myself in some young year hoping to contact the older person I became to remind him of
his past, his life, his people, his joys, and his drenching sorrows.
It became a game that I took to with immense gusto: to see how much I could
remember about dandelions themselves, or picking wild grapes with my father and
brother, rediscovering the mosquito-breeding ground rain barrel by the side bay window,
or searching out the smell of the goldfuzzed bees that hung around our back porch grape
arbor. Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don’t they should, for their feet are
dusted with spices from a million flowers.
And then I wanted to call back what the ravine was like, especially on those nights
when walking home late across town, after seeing Lon Chaney’s delicious fright The
Phantom of the Opera, my brother Skip would run ahead and hide under the ravine-creek
bridge like the Lonely One and leap out and grab me, shrieking, so I ran, fell, and ran
again, gibbering all the way home. That was great stuff.
Along the way I came upon and collided, through word-association, with old and true
friendships. I borrowed my friend John Huff from my childhood in Arizona and shipped
him East to Green Town so that I could say good-bye to him properly.
Along the way, I sat me down to breakfasts, lunches, and dinners with the long dead
and much loved. For I was a boy who did indeed love his parents and grandparents and
his brother, even when that brother “ditched” him.
Along the way, I found myself in the basement working the wine-press for my father,
or on the front porch Independence night helping my Uncle Bion load and fire his
homemade brass cannon.
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Thus I fell into surprise. No one told me to surprise myself, I might add. I came on the
old and best ways of writing through ignorance and experiment and was startled when
truths leaped out of bushes like quail before gunshot. I blundered into creativity as
blindly as any child learning to walk and see. I learned to let my senses and my Past tell
me all that was somehow true.
So, I turned myself into a boy running to bring a dipper of clear rainwater out of that
barrel by the side of the house. And, of course, the more water you dip out the more
flows in. The flow has never ceased. Once I learned to keep going back and back again to
those times, I had plenty of memories and sense impressions to play with, not work with,
no, play with. Dandelion Wine is nothing if it is not the boy-hid-in-the-man playing in the
fields of the Lord on the green grass of other Augusts in the midst of starting to grow up,
grow old, and sense darkness waiting under the trees to seed the blood.
I was amused and somewhat astonished at a critic a few years back who wrote an
article analyzing Dandelion Wine plus the more realistic works of Sinclair Lewis,
wondering how I could have been born and raised in Waukegan, which I renamed Green
Town for my novel, and not noticed how ugly the harbor was and how depressing the
coal docks and railyards down below the town.
But, of course, I had noticed them and, genetic enchanter that I was, was fascinated
by their beauty. Trains and boxcars and the smell of coal and fire are not ugly to
children. Ugliness is a concept that we happen on later and become selfconscious about.
Counting boxcars is a prime activity of boys. Their elders fret and fume and jeer at the
train that holds them up, but boys happily count and cry the names of the cars as they
pass from far places.
And again, that supposedly ugly railyard was where carnivals and circuses arrived with
elephants who washed the brick pavements with mighty steaming acid waters at five in
the dark morning.
As for the coal from the docks, I went down in my basement every autumn to await
the arrival of the truck and its metal chute, which clanged down and released a ton of
beauteous meteors that fell out of far space into my cellar and threatened to bury me
beneath dark treasures.
In other words, if your boy is a poet, horse manure can only mean flowers to him;
which is, of course, what horse manure has always been about.
Perhaps a new poem of mine will explain more than this introduction about the
germination of all the summers of my life into one book.
Here’s the start of the poem:
Byzantium, I come not from,
But from another time and place
Whose race was simple, tried and true;
As boy 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
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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 rockingchair 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.
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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
DANDELION WINE
It was a quiet morning, the town covered over with darkness and at ease in bed.
Summer gathered in the weather, the wind had the proper touch, the breathing of the
world was long and warm and slow. You had only to rise, lean from your window, and
know that this indeed was the first real time of freedom and living, this was the first
morning of summer.
Douglas Spaulding, twelve, freshly wakened, let summer idle him on its early-morning
stream. Lying in his third-story cupola bedroom, he felt the tall power it gave him, riding
high in the June wind, the grandest tower in town. At night, when the trees washed
together, he flashed his gaze like a beacon from this lighthouse in all directions over
swarming seas of elm and oak and maple. Now . . .
“Boy,” whispered Douglas.
A whole summer ahead to cross off the calendar, day by day. Like the goddess Siva in
the travel books, he saw his hands jump everywhere, pluck sour apples, peaches, and
midnight plums. He would be clothed in trees and bushes and rivers. He would freeze,
gladly, in the hoarfrosted icehouse door. He would bake, happily, with ten thousand
chickens, in Grandma’s kitchen.
But now—a familiar task awaited him.
One night each week he was allowed to leave his father, his mother, and his younger
brother Tom asleep in their small house next door and run here, up the dark spiral stairs
to his grandparents’ cupola, and in this sorcerer’s tower sleep with thunders and visions,
to wake before the crystal jingle of milk bottles and perform his ritual magic.
He stood at the open window in the dark, took a deep breath and exhaled.
The street lights, like candles on a black cake, went out. He exhaled again and again
and the stars began to vanish.
Douglas smiled. He pointed a finger.
There, and there. Now over here, and here . . .
Yellow squares were cut in the dim morning earth as house lights winked slowly on. A
sprinkle of windows came suddenly alight miles off in dawn country.
“Everyone yawn. Everyone up.”
The great house stirred below.
“Grandpa, get your teeth from the water glass!” He waited a decent interval.
“Grandma and Great-grandma, fry hot cakes!”
The warm scent of fried batter rose in the drafty halls to stir the boarders, the aunts,
the uncles, the visiting cousins, in their rooms.
“Street where all the Old People live, wake up! Miss Helen Loomis, Colonel Freeleigh,
Miss Bentley! Cough, get up, take pills, move around! Mr. Jonas, hitch up your horse, get
your junk wagon out and around!”
The bleak mansions across the town ravine opened baleful dragon eyes. Soon, in the
morning avenues below, two old women would glide their electric Green Machine, waving
at all the dogs. “Mr. Tridden, run to the carbarn!” Soon, scattering hot blue sparks above
it, the town trolley would sail the rivering brick streets.
“Ready John Huff, Charlie Woodman?” whispered Douglas to the Street of Children.
“Ready!” to baseballs sponged deep in wet lawns, to rope swings hung empty in trees.
“Mom, Dad, Tom, wake up.”
Clock alarms tinkled faintly. The courthouse clock boomed. Birds leaped from trees
like a net thrown by his hand, singing. Douglas, conducting an orchestra, pointed to the
eastern sky.
The sun began to rise.
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He folded his arms and smiled a magician’s smile. Yes, sir, he thought, everyone
jumps, everyone runs when I yell. It’ll be a fine season. He gave the town a last snap of
his fingers.
Doors slammed open; people stepped out.
Summer 1928 began.
Crossing the lawn that morning, Douglas Spaulding broke a spider web with his face. A
single invisible line on the air touched his brow and snapped without a sound.
So, with the subtlest of incidents, he knew that this day was going to be different. It
would be different also, because, as his father explained, driving Douglas and his ten-
year-old brother Tom out of town toward the country, there were some days
compounded completely of odor, nothing but the world blowing in one nostril and out the
other. And some days, he went on, were days of hearing every trump and trill of the
universe. Some days were good for tasting and some for touching. And some days were
good for all the senses at once. This day now, he nodded, smelled as if a great and
nameless orchard had grown up overnight beyond the hills to fill the entire visible land
with its warm freshness. The air felt like rain, but there were no clouds. Momentarily, a
stranger might laugh off in the woods, but there was silence . . .
Douglas watched the traveling land. He smelled no orchards and sensed no rain, for
without apple trees or clouds he knew neither could exist. And as for that stranger
laughing deep in the woods . . . ?
Yet the fact remained—Douglas shivered—this, without reason, was a special day.
The car stopped at the very center of the quiet forest.
“All right, boys, behave.”
They had been jostling elbows.
“Yes, sir.”
They climbed out, carrying the blue tin pails away from the lonely dirt road into the
smell of fallen rain.
“Look for bees,” said Father. “Bees hang around grapes like boys around kitchens,
Doug?” Douglas looked up suddenly.
“You’re off a million miles,” said Father. “Look alive. Walk with us.”
“Yes, sir.”
And they walked through the forest, Father very tall, Douglas moving in his shadow,
and Tom, very small, trotting in his brother’s shade. They came to a little rise and looked
ahead. Here, here, did they see? Father pointed. Here was where the big summer-quiet
winds lived and passed in the green depths, like ghost whales, unseen.
Douglas looked quickly, saw nothing, and felt put upon by his father who, like
Grandpa, lived on riddles. But . . .But, still . . .Douglas paused and listened.
Yes, something’s going to happen, he thought, I know it!
“Here’s maidenhair fern,” Dad walked, the tin pail belling in his fist. “Feel this?” He
scuffed the earth. “A million years of good rich leafmold laid down. Think of the autumns
that got by to make this.”
“Boy, I walk like an Indian,” said Tom. “Not a sound.”
Douglas felt but did not feel the deep loam, listening, watchful. We’re surrounded! he
thought. It’ll happen! What? He stopped. Come out, wherever you are, whatever you are!
he cried silently.
Tom and Dad strolled on the hushed earth ahead.
“Finest lace there is,” said Dad quietly.
And he was gesturing up through the trees above to show them how it was woven
across the sky or how the sky was woven into the trees, he wasn’t sure which. But there
it was, he smiled, and the weaving went on, green and blue, if you watched and saw the
forest shift its humming loom. Dad stood comfortably saying this and that, the words
easy in his mouth. He made it easier by laughing at his own declarations just so often.
He liked to listen to the silence, he said, if silence could be listened to, for, he went on, in
that silence you could hear wildflower pollen sifting down the bee-fried air, by God, the
bee-fried air! Listen! the waterfall of birdsong beyond those trees!
Now, thought Douglas, here it comes! Running! I don’t see it! Running! Almost on me!
“Fox grapes!” said Father. “We’re in luck, look here!”
Don’t! Douglas gasped.
5
But Tom and Dad bent down to shove their hands deep in rattling bush. The spell was
shattered. The terrible prowler, the magnificent runner, the leaper, the shaker of souls,
vanished.
Douglas, lost and empty, fell to his knees. He saw his fingers sink through green
shadow and come forth stained with such color that it seemed he had somehow cut the
forest and delved his hand in the open wound.
“Lunch time, boys!
With buckets half burdened with fox grapes and wild strawberries, followed by bees
which were, no more, no less, said Father, the world humming under its breath, they sat
on a green-mossed log, chewing sandwiches and trying to listen to the forest the same
way Father did. Douglas felt Dad watching him, quietly amused. Dad started to say
something that had crossed his mind, but instead tried another bite of sandwich and
mused over it.
“Sandwich outdoors isn’t a sandwich anymore. Tastes different than indoors, notice?
Got more spice. Tastes like mint and pinesap. Does wonders for the appetite.”
Douglas’s tongue hesitated on the texture of bread and deviled ham. No . . .no . . .it
was just a sandwich.
Tom chewed and nodded. “Know just what you mean, Dad!”
It almost happened, thought Douglas. Whatever it was it was Big, my gosh, it was
Big! Something scared it off. Where is it now? Back of that bush! No, behind me! No
here . . .almost here . . .He kneeded his stomach secretly.
If I wait, it’ll come back. It won’t hurt; somehow I know it’s not here to hurt me. What
then? What? What?
“You know how many baseball games we played this year, last year, year before?”
said Tom, apropos of nothing. Douglas watched Tom’s quickly moving lips.
“Wrote it down! One thousand five hundred sixty-eight games! How many times I
brushed my teeth in ten years? Six thousand! Washing my hands: fifteen thousand.
Slept: four thousand some-odd times, not counting naps. Ate six hundred peaches, eight
hundred apples. Pears: two hundred. I’m not hot for pears. Name a thing, I got the
statistics! Runs to the billion millions, things I done, add ’em up, in ten years.”
Now, thought Douglas, it’s coming close again. Why? Tom talking? But why Tom? Tom
chatting along, mouth crammed with sandwich, Dad there, alert as a mountain cat on the
log, and Tom letting the words rise like quick soda bubbles in his mouth:
“Books I read: four hundred. Matinees I seen: forty Buck Joneses, thirty Jack Hoxies,
forty-five Tom Mixes, thirty-nine Hoot Gibsons, one hundred and ninety-two single and
separate Felix-the-Cat cartoons, ten Douglas Fairbankses, eight repeats on Lon Chaney
in The Phantom of the Opera, four Milton Sillses, and one Adolph Menjou thing about love
where I spent ninety hours in the theater toilet waiting for the mush to be over so I could
see The Cat and the Canary or The Bat, where everybody held onto everybody else and
screamed for two hours without letting go. During that time I figure four hundred
lollipops, three hundred Tootsie Rolls, seven hundred ice-cream cones . . .
Tom rolled quietly along his way for another five minutes and then Dad said, “How
many berries you picked so far, Tom?”
“Two hundred fifty-six on the nose!” said Tom instantly.
Dad laughed and lunch was over and they moved again into the shadows to find fox
grapes and the tiny wild strawberries, bent down, all three of them, hands coming and
going, the pails getting heavy, and Douglas holding his breath, thinking, Yes, yes, it’s
near again! Breathing on my neck, almost! Don’t look! Work. Just pick, fill up the pail. If
you look you’ll scare it off. Don’t lose it this time! But how do you bring it around here
where you can see it, stare it right in the eye? How? How?
“Got a snowflake in a matchbox,” said Tom, smiling at the wine-glove on his hand.
Shut up! Douglas wanted to yell. But no, the yell would scare the echoes, and run the
Thing away!
And, wait . . . the more Tom talked, the closer the great Thing came, it wasn’t scared
of Tom, Tom drew it with his breath, Tom was part of it!
“Last February,” said Tom, and chuckled. “Held a matchbox up in a snowstorm, let one
old snowflake fall in, shut it up, ran inside the house, stashed it in the icebox!”
6
Close, very close. Douglas stared at Tom’s flickering lips. He wanted to jump around,
for he felt a vast tidal wave lift up behind the forest. In an instant it would smash down,
crush them forever . . .
“Yes, sir,” mused Tom, picking grapes, “I’m the only guy in all Illinois who’s got a
snowflake in summer. Precious as diamonds, by gosh. Tomorrow I’ll open it. Doug, you
can look, too . . .
Any other day Douglas might have snorted, struck out, denied it all. But now, with the
great Thing rushing near, falling down in the clear air above him, he could only nod, eyes
shut.
Tom, puzzled, stopped picking berries and turned to stare over at his brother.
Douglas, hunched over, was an ideal target. Tom leaped, yelling, landed. They fell,
thrashed, and rolled.
No! Douglas squeezed his mind shut. No! But suddenly . . .Yes, it’s all right! Yes! The
tangle, the contact of bodies, the falling tumble had not scared off the tidal sea that
crashed now, flooding and washing them along the shore of grass deep through the
forest. Knuckles struck his mouth. He tasted rusty warm blood, grabbed Tom hard, held
him tight, and so in silence they lay, hearts churning, nostrils hissing. And at last, slowly,
afraid he would find nothing, Douglas opened one eye.
And everything, absolutely everything, was there.
The world, like a great iris of an even more gigantic eye, which has also just opened
and stretched out to encompass everything, stared back at him.
And he knew what it was that had leaped upon him to stay and would not run away
now.
I’m alive, he thought.
His fingers trembled, bright with blood, like the bits of a strange flag now found and
before unseen, and him wondering what country and what allegiance he owed to it.
Holding Tom, but not knowing him there, he touched his free hand to that blood as if it
could be peeled away, held up, turned over. Then he let go of Tom and lay on his back
with his hand up in the sky and he was a head from which his eyes peered like sentinels
through the portcullis of a strange castle out along a bridge, his arm, to those fingers
where the bright pennant of blood quivered in the light. “You all right, Doug?” asked
Tom.
His voice was at the bottom of a green moss well somewhere underwater, secret,
removed.
The grass whispered under his body. He put his arm down, feeling the sheath of fuzz
on it, and, far away, below, his toes creaking in his shoes. The wind sighed over his
shelled ears. The world slipped bright over the glassy round of his eyeballs like images
sparked in a crystal sphere. Flowers were sun and fiery spots of sky strewn through the
woodland. Birds flickered like skipped stones across the vast inverted pond of heaven.
His breath raked over his teeth, going in ice, coming out fire. Insects shocked the air with
electric clearness. Ten thousand individual hairs grew a millionth of an inch on his head.
He heard the twin hearts beating in each ear, the third heart beating in his throat, the
two hearts throbbing his wrists, the real heart pounding his chest. The million pores on
his body opened.
I’m really alive! he thought. I never knew it before, or if I did I don’t remember!
He yelled it loud but silent, a dozen times! Think of it, think of it! Twelve years old and
only now! Now discovering this rare timepiece, this clock gold-bright and guaranteed to
run threescore and ten, left under a tree and found while wrestling.
“Doug, you okay?”
Douglas yelled, grabbed Tom, and rolled.
“Doug, you’re crazy!”
“Crazy!”
They spilled downhill, the sun in their mouths, in their eyes like shattered lemon glass,
gasping like trout thrown out on a bank, laughing till they cried.
“Doug, you’re not mad?”
“No, no, no, no, no!”
Douglas, eyes shut, saw spotted leopards pad in the dark.
“Tom!” Then quieter. “Tom . . .does everyone in the world . . .know he’s alive?”
“Sure. Heck, yes!”
7
The leopards trotted soundlessly off through darker lands where eyeballs could not
turn to follow.
“I hope they do,” whispered Douglas. “Oh, I sure hope they know.”
Douglas opened his eyes. Dad was standing high above him there in the green-leaved
sky, laughing, hands on hips. Their eyes met. Douglas quickened. Dad knows, he
thought. It was all planned. He brought us here on purpose, so this could happen to me!
He’s in on it, he knows it all. And now he knows that I know.
A hand came down and seized him through the air. Swayed on his feet with Tom and
Dad, still bruised and rumpled, puzzled and awed, Douglas held his strange-boned
elbows tenderly and licked the fine cut lip with satisfaction. Then he looked at Dad and
Tom.
“I’ll carry all the pails,” he said. “This once, let me haul everything.”
They handed over the pails with quizzical smiles.
He stood swaying slightly, the forest collected, full-weighted and heavy with syrup,
clenched hard in his down-slung hands. I want to feel all there is to feel, he thought. Let
me feel tired, now, let me feel tired. I mustn’t forget, I’m alive, I know I’m alive, T
mustn’t forget it tonight or tomorrow or the day after that.
The bees followed and the smell of fox grapes and yellow summer followed as he
walked heavy-laden and half drunk, his fingers wonderously callused, arms numb, feet
stumbling so his father caught his shoulder.
“No,” mumbled Douglas, “I’m all right. I’m fine . . .”
It took half an hour for the sense of the grass, the roots, the stones, the bark of the
messy log, to fade from where they had patterned his arms and legs and back. While he
pondered this, let it slip, slide, dissolve away, his brother and his quiet father followed
behind, allowing him to pathfind the forest alone out toward that incredible highway
which would take them back to the town . . .
The town, then, later in the day.
And yet another harvest.
Grandfather stood on the wide front porch like a captain surveying the vast
unmotioned calms of a season dead ahead. He questioned the wind and the untouchable
sky and the lawn on which stood Douglas and Tom to question only him.
“Grandpa, are they ready? Now?”
Grandfather pinched his chin. “Five hundred, a thousand, two thousand easy. Yes,
yes, a good supply. Pick ’em easy, pick ’em all. A dime for every sack delivered to the
press!”
“Hey!”
The boys bent, smiling. They picked the golden flowers. The flowers that flooded the
world, dripped off lawns onto brick streets, tapped softly at crystal cellar windows and
agitated themselves so that on all sides lay the dazzle and glitter of molten sun.
“Every year,” said Grandfather. “They run amuck; I let them. Pride of lions in the
yard. Stare, and they burn a hole in your retina. A common flower, a weed that no one
sees, yes. But for us, a noble thing, the dandelion.”
So, plucked carefully, in sacks, the dandelions were carried below. The cellar dark
glowed with their arrival. The wine press stood open, cold. A rush of flowers warmed it.
The press, replaced, its screw rotated, twirled by Grandfather, squeezed gently on the
crop.
“There . . . so . . .”
The golden tide, the essence of this fine fair month ran, then gushed from the spout
below, to be crocked, skimmed of ferment, and bottled in clean ketchup shakers, then
ranked in sparkling rows in cellar gloom.
Dandelion wine.
The words were summer on the tongue. The wine was summer caught and stoppered.
And now that Douglas knew, he really 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 the 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
8
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
reinhabitated 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.
“Ready, now, the rain barrel!”
Nothing else in the world would do but the pure waters which had been summoned
from the lakes far away and the sweet fields of grassy dew on early morning, lifted to the
open sky, carried in laundered clusters nine hundred miles, brushed with wind, electrified
with high voltage, and condensed upon cool air. This water, falling, raining, gathered yet
more of the heavens in its crystals. Taking something of the east wind and the west wind
and the north wind and the south, the water made rain and the rain, within this hour of
rituals, would be well on its way to wine.
Douglas ran with the dipper. He plunged it deep in the rain barrel. “Here we go!”
The water was silk in the cup; clear, faintly blue silk. It softened the lip and the throat
and the heart, if drunk. This water must be carried in dipper and bucket to the cellar,
there to be leavened in freshets, in mountain streams, upon the dandelion harvest.
Even Grandma, when snow was whirling fast, dizzying the world, blinding windows,
stealing breath from gasping mouths, even Grandma, one day in February, would vanish
to the cellar.
Above, in the vast house, there would be coughings, sneezings, wheezings, and
groans, childish fevers, throats raw as butcher’s meat, noses like bottled cherries, the
stealthy microbe everywhere.
Then, rising from the cellar like a June goddess, Grandma would come, something
hidden but obvious under her knitted shawl. This, carried to every miserable room
upstairs-and-down would be dispensed with aroma and clarity into neat glasses, to be
swigged neatly. The medicines of another time, the balm of sun and idle August
afternoons, the faintly heard sounds of ice wagons passing on brick avenues, the rush of
silver skyrockets and the fountaining of lawn mowers moving through ant countries, all
these, all these in a glass.
Yes, even Grandma, drawn to the cellar of winter for a June adventure, might stand
alone and quietly, in secret conclave with her own soul and spirit, as did Grandfather and
Father and Uncle Pert, or some of the boarders, communing with a last touch of a
calendar long departed, with the picnics and the warm rains and the smell of fields of
wheat and new popcorn and bending hay. Even Grandma, repeating and repeating the
fine and golden words, even as they were said now in this moment when the flowers
were dropped into the press, as they would be repeated every winter for all the white
winters in time. Saying them over and over on the lips, like a smile, like a sudden patch
of sunlight in the dark.
Dandelion wine. Dandelion wine. Dandelion wine.
You did not hear them coming. You hardly heard them go. The grass bent down,
sprang up again. They passed like cloud shadows downhill . . .the boys of summer,
running.
Douglas, left behind, was lost. Panting, he stopped by the rim of the ravine, at the
edge of the softly blowing abyss. Here, ears pricked like a deer, he snuffed a danger that
was old a billion years ago. Here the town, divided, fell away in halves. Here civilization
ceased. Here was only growing earth and a million deaths and rebirths every hour.
And here the paths, made or yet unmade, that told of the need of boys traveling,
always traveling, to be men.
Douglas turned. This path led in a great dusty snake to the ice house where winter
lived on the yellow days. This path raced for the blast-furnace sands of the lake shore in
July. This to trees where boys might grow like sour and still-green crab apples, hid
among leaves. This to peach orchard, grape arbor, watermelons lying like tortoise-shell
9
cats slumbered by sun. That path, abandoned, but wildly swiveling, to school! This,
straight as an arrow, to Saturday cowboy matinees. And this, by the creek waters, to
wilderness beyond town . . .
Douglas squinted.
Who could say where town or wideness began? Who could say which owned what and
what owned which? There was always and forever that indefinable place where the two
struggled and one of them won for a season to possess a certain avenue, a deli, a glen, a
tree, a bush. The thin lapping of the great continental sea of grass and flower, starting
far out in lonely farm country, moved inward with the thrust of seasons. Each night the
wilderness, the meadows, the far country flowed down-creek through ravine and welled
up in town with a smell of grass and water, and the town was disinhabited and dead and
gone back to earth. And each morning a little more of the ravine edged up into town,
threatening to swamp garages like leaking rowboats, devour ancient cars which had been
left to the flaking mercies of rain and therefore rust.
“Hey! Hey!” John Huff and Charlie Woodman ran through the mystery of ravine and
town and time. “Hey!”
Douglas moved slowly down the path. The ravine was indeed the place where you
came to look at the two things of life, the ways of man and the ways of the natural
world. The town was, after all, only a large ship filled with constantly moving survivors,
bailing out the grass, chipping away the rust. Now and again a lifeboat, a shanty, kin to
the mother ship, lost out to the quiet storm of seasons, sank down in silent waves of
termite and ant into swallowing ravine to feel the flicker of grasshoppers rattling like dry
paper in hot weeds, become soundproofed with spider dust and finally, in avalanche of
shingle and tar, collapse like kindling shrines into a bonfire, which thunderstorms ignited
with blue lightning, while flash-photographing the triumph of the wilderness.
It was this then, the mystery of man seizing from the land and the land seizing back,
year after year, that drew Douglas, knowing the towns never really won, they merely
existed in calm peril, fully accoutered with lawn mower, bug spray and hedge shears,
swimming steadily as long as civilization said to swim, but each house ready to sink in
green tides, buried forever, when the last man ceased and his trowels and mowers
shattered to cereal flakes of rust.
The town. The wideness. The houses. The ravine. Douglas blinked back and forth. But
how to relate the two, make sense of the interchange when . . .
His eyes moved down to the ground.
The first rite of summer, the dandelion picking, the starting of the wine, was over.
Now the second rite waited for him to make the motions, but he stood very still.
“Doug . . .come on . . .Doug . . . !” The running boys faded.
“I’m alive,” said Douglas. “But what’s the use? They’re more alive than me. How
come? How come?” And standing alone, he knew the answer, staring down at his
motionless feet . . .
Late that night, going home from the show with his mother and father and his brother
Tom, Douglas saw the tennis shoes in the bright store window. He glanced quickly away,
but his ankles were seized, his feet suspended, then rushed. The earth spun; the shop
awnings slammed their canvas wings overhead with the thrust of his body running. His
mother and father and brother walked quietly on both sides of him. Douglas walked
backward, watching the tennis shoes in the midnight window left behind.
“It was a nice movie,” said Mother.
Douglas murmured, “It was . . .”
It was June and long past time for buying the special shoes that were quiet as a
summer rain falling on the walks. June and the earth full of raw power and everything
everywhere in motion. The grass was still pouring in from the country, surrounding the
sidewalks, stranding the houses. Any moment the town would capsize, go down and
leave not a stir in the clover and weeds. And here Douglas stood, trapped on the dead
cement and the red-brick streets, hardly able to move.
“Dad!” He blurted it out. “Back there in that window, those Cream-Sponge Para
Litefoot Shoes . . .”
His father didn’t even turn. “Suppose you tell me why you need a new pair of
sneakers. Can you do that?”
10
摘要：

DandelionWineRayBrudburyForWalterI.Bradburyneitherunclenorcousinbutmostdecidedlyeditorandfriend.JUSTTHISSIDEOFBYZANTIUManintroductionThisbooklikemostofmybooksandstories,wasasurprise.Ibegantolearnthenatureofsuchsurprises,thankGod,whenIwasfairlyyoungasawriter.Beforethat,likeeverybeginner,Ithoughtyouco...

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