Kwak's place

On nostalgic childhood, except for that chapter about the serial killer

My year-after-college-graduation roommate was in love with Dandelion Wine. We had grown up together–she was my little sister’s age, and thus fell into the category of “annoying” while we were younger. After I went away to college and “re-met” her a few years later, I realized that I really dug her style. I still do. She’s one of the cuter things in the world.

I went through a long dry spell of reading materials during our six months in Peru, mainly because it was so hard to find anything in a book exchange that wasn’t written by Nora Roberts or Tom Clancy. So when we got into Portland to visit my awesome ex-roommate and her adorable 2-year-old, I found myself completely overwhelmed by her bookshelf.

I was looking for something to pass the evening, something pleasant, well-written, meaningful…. I was frozen by indecision when faced with such an array of great books that I’ve always wanted to read. My fingers lit on one, then another classic work of beauty and longing. I bit my lip, tormented by indecision.

I finally settled on a slim, well-loved copy of Dandelion Wine–partly because I knew how much my ex-roommate liked it, and partly because it looked short and I was a bit worried that my attention span had taken a blow. I settled down on the couch with a crocheted afghan pulled up around my neck, and began to read.

So I finally talk about the book here

I haven’t read any Bradbury since I forgot how to spell Fahrenheit 451 in high school. Dandelion Wine is not what I was expecting–a gently nostalgic look at childhood through the lens of Summertime.

Douglas Spaulding takes it upon himself to chronicle the rituals and revelations of summer, from the first pair of New Sneakers, to the loss of his best friend. It’s as though through the very attempt to capture his childhood on paper, however, he destroys its illusion. He realizes that friendships end, people die, and that important rituals cease to have any meaning.

The novel is lusciously written, touching, heartbreaking, haunting…. And then there’s the serial killer chapter that snuck up on me while I was innocently reading in bed. I expected another wistful tale of missed connections or angst-filled childhood revelation. Instead, I found myself suddenly immersed in a heart-pounding chase of terror, where you flee the most terrible thing you can think of, only to find it in the place you thought was the safest.

Did I have nightmares that night? Of course I did. It’s near page 121, if you want to time your bedtime reading around missing it (recommended).

In short, read this book. Carefully.