Dandelion Wine celebrates Ray Bradbury’s summers growing up in Illinois. This week's passage touches on friendship, the sights, sounds, and scents of summer, and the shock of change. There is only one passage, but several directions to launch out for your writing this week.
A variety of artists with different points-of-view have illustrated the cover over the years:
A variety of artists with different points-of-view have illustrated the cover over the years:
The facts about John Huff, aged twelve, are simple and soon stated. He could path-find more trails than any Choctaw or Cherokee since time began, could leap from the sky like a chimpanzee from a vine, could live underwater two minutes and slide fifty yards downstream from where you last saw him. The baseballs you pitched him he hit in the apple trees, knocking down harvests. He could jump six-foot orchard walls, swing up branches faster and come down, fat with peaches, quicker than anyone else in the gang. He ran laughing. He sat easy. He was not a bully. He was kind. His hair was dark and curly and his teeth were white as cream. He remembered the words to all the cowboy songs and would teach you if you asked. He knew the names of all the wild flowers and when the moon would rise and set and when the tides came in or out. He was, in fact, the only best friend living in the whole of Green Town, Illinois, during the twentieth century that Douglas Spaulding knew of.
And right now he and Douglas were hiking out beyond town on another warm and marble-round day, the sky blue blown-glass reaching high, the creeks bright with mirror waters fanning over white stones. It was a day as perfect as the flame of a candle.
Douglas walked through it thinking it would go on this way forever. The perfection. The grass smell traveled on out ahead as far and fast as the speed of light. The sound of a good friend whistling like an oriole. Pegging the softball. All of it was complete, everything could be touched; good things stayed near, good things were at hand and would remain.
It was such a fine day and then suddenly a cloud crossed the sky, covered the sun, and did not move again.
John Huff had been speaking quietly for several minutes. Now Douglas stopped on the path and looked over at him.
“John, say that again.”
“You heard me the first time, Doug.”
“Did you say you were— going away?”
“Got my train ticket here in my pocket . . .” His voice faded. John took the yellow and green train ticket solemnly from his pocket and they both looked at it.
“My gosh!” said Douglas. “How come, all of a sudden? You been here in Green Town all my life. You just don’t pick up and leave!”
“It’s my father,” said John. “He’s got a job in Milwaukee. We weren’t sure until today . . .”
“Good grief!” said Douglas. “Let me sit down!”
Bradbury, Ray. Dandelion Wine (p. 114-115). HarperCollins, 1957.
And right now he and Douglas were hiking out beyond town on another warm and marble-round day, the sky blue blown-glass reaching high, the creeks bright with mirror waters fanning over white stones. It was a day as perfect as the flame of a candle.
Douglas walked through it thinking it would go on this way forever. The perfection. The grass smell traveled on out ahead as far and fast as the speed of light. The sound of a good friend whistling like an oriole. Pegging the softball. All of it was complete, everything could be touched; good things stayed near, good things were at hand and would remain.
It was such a fine day and then suddenly a cloud crossed the sky, covered the sun, and did not move again.
John Huff had been speaking quietly for several minutes. Now Douglas stopped on the path and looked over at him.
“John, say that again.”
“You heard me the first time, Doug.”
“Did you say you were— going away?”
“Got my train ticket here in my pocket . . .” His voice faded. John took the yellow and green train ticket solemnly from his pocket and they both looked at it.
“My gosh!” said Douglas. “How come, all of a sudden? You been here in Green Town all my life. You just don’t pick up and leave!”
“It’s my father,” said John. “He’s got a job in Milwaukee. We weren’t sure until today . . .”
“Good grief!” said Douglas. “Let me sit down!”
Bradbury, Ray. Dandelion Wine (p. 114-115). HarperCollins, 1957.