Thank you, Mr. Bradbury

Once, nearly half a century ago, when I was confined to my bed with the flu, my mother brought me a stack of library books to read. Included was the collection of short stories by Ray Bradbury, S is for Space. I quickly devoured it, followed by every Ray Bradbury book I could get my hands on. My favorites were Dandelion Wine and Something Wicked This Way Comes. It was easy to identify with the protagonists in these books—boys of approximately my own age who lived in a small midwestern town much like mine: Green Town, Illinois—the idyllic, magical place based on Bradbury's hometown of Waukegan.

More than any other author, Ray Bradbury was responsible for my desire to become a writer. One of the first stories I wrote was inspired by his I Sing the Body Electric. As an homage, I named the manufacturer of my protagonist—a male surrogate (or "Mandroid") named Andrew—"Fantoccini," after the manufacturer of Bradbury's electric grandmother. My story was never published, but if it had been, I would have dedicated it to Mr. Bradbury.

On the wall of my den hangs an arcane bit of Bradbury memorabilia: a poster from Fahrenheit 451 - The Musical, which premiered at the Fort Wayne Civic Theatre in November of 1988. I was in the audience on opening night, as was Mr. Bradbury. He sat just a few rows in front of me. I wanted so badly to tell him how much his books meant to me, but I couldn't find the courage to approach him.

Fourteen years later, I got a second chance.

When we moved to Southern California, I soon discovered that Mr. Bradbury often made public appearances in the Los Angeles area—usually to raise money for public libraries, a cause dear to his heart. It was nearly impossible to get tickets to one of these events unless you knew someone. As luck would have it, we did know someone. Loretta's aunt, who had recently moved to Riverside, worked as a volunteer at the Riverside Public Library. When she found out that I was a fan, she got us tickets to An Afternoon with Ray Bradbury on November 23, 2002.

There wasn't room at the library for the sell-out crowd, so the event was held at a church across the street. Since I had last seen Mr. Bradbury, he had suffered a stroke and was now in a wheelchair, but his voice was still clear and strong. He regaled us for an hour with stories of the old days in Los Angeles, his friendship with Ray Harryhausen, and his experiences in the movie business. Afterwards, we all trooped back across the street to the library, where he stayed for another hour to sign books. I waited patiently in line, clutching a dog-eared copy of The Martian Chronicles. When I got to the table, I planned to blurt it all out—how he had inspired me to read as a child and to write as an adult, how I had seen him years before in Fort Wayne but had lacked the courage to speak to him. But when I got to the front of the line and presented my book to be signed, all I could say was, "Thank you, Mr. Bradbury."

And really, I suppose that was all that needed to be said.

For Dad

My father loved to reminisce. Whenever our family got together—usually around the dinner table (we all love a good meal)—he would tell family stories. Sometimes they were about something that happened when he was a child, or when he and my mother were first married. But usually, when my brother, my sister, or I were present, the stories were about us. They would invariably begin, "Remember when...?" If we didn't remember the incident, we certainly remembered the story, because he had told it many, many times.

For instance, one of his favorites about me involved a visit to a carnival in Vincennes, Indiana, when I was about three years old. He took me into a fun house, thinking it was going to be like the fun houses he went to when he was a kid, with mirrors, moving floors, slides, and so forth. Instead it turned out to be a dark ride, with ghosts and monsters that jumped out and scared the bejezus out of me. According to Dad, for a long time after that, if anyone said we were going to do something "fun," I would immediately burst into tears.

I must not have been too traumatized by the incident, because I don't remember anything about it, and I've loved a good scare since I was about ten. But Dad could never forget it. He told this story again the last time we visited, and he still felt terrible about subjecting his child to such a frightening ordeal.

There are many such stories about things Susan, David, or I said or did when we were kids. Whenever Dad would begin to tell one, we would always groan, "Not again!" As we got older, we were embarrassed when he told them in front of friends, spouses or, worst of all in David's case, in front of his children. But we always knew that Dad didn't tell these stories to embarrass us. He told them out of love.

Dad knew that telling stories about our loved ones is a way to keep them in our hearts, to keep them alive. And so, when our family gets together, I'm sure that we will continue this tradition. We'll tell the stories Dad used to tell, and we'll tell stories about Dad.

For instance, there was the first time he visited Loretta and me in California, just after we moved there in 1995. He had flown to San Jose for his brother Hollis's 75th birthday; we drove up to San Jose for the party and brought Dad back to Los Angeles to stay with us for a few days. While he was with us, we took him to one of our favorite restaurants—a place called Houston's. He loved it. He couldn't stop talking about how delicious the food was—especially the couscous, which he hadn't had in years. We told him that it was a nationwide chain, and that there was probably one somewhere in his area.

When he got back to Virginia, he couldn't wait to take my mother to this wonderful restaurant he had discovered. He couldn't exactly recall the name, but he knew it began with an 'H.' Then, one day when they were out driving, he thought he spotted the place, and he and Mom decided to stop there for lunch.

It was Hooters.

"Once we were inside, I didn't think it was the right place," Dad said, "And the food wasn't anywhere near as good. But your mother didn't seem to mind. She enjoyed her hamburger."

Most men from my father's generation are not comfortable with displays of affection. I count myself fortunate that my father was not like most men. Dad was a hugger, and it felt so good to be hugged by him, and to be told—even at the age of 57—how much he loved me, and how proud he was of me. I like to think that I have learned many lessons from his example: honesty, kindness, patience, tolerance. But the most important thing I have learned from him is to never miss an opportunity to tell the people you love how you feel about them.

So, Dad, I know I've said it before, but I love you. I am so very proud of you, and I am so very proud to be your son.

I Want to Ride My Bicycle

My first bicycle was a red 24" single-speed Schwinn cruiser. My father taught me to ride it on Pam Street, the next street over from ours, because there was hardly any traffic there. Time after time he ran alongside me, holding me up, then letting go. Time after time I fell over, and, each time, I wanted to give up and go home. But Dad convinced me to stick it out, and I eventually got the hang of it.

Having a bike gave me so much freedom. My world suddenly grew exponentially bigger. During the summer, my friends and I rode all over town: the library for books, Boyce Theater for a Saturday double-feature, Judd's Drugs for a phosphate or soda, the fairgrounds during the county fair, Pike Lake for fishing or swimming (taking the shortcut through the cemetery). I'll never forget the exhilaration of the wind in my face as I coasted down a hill.

My favorite place to go was Readmore Bookstore, on the courthouse square. (My friend Jim told me that the store was named for its owners. Jim was a year older than me, and I believed everything he told me. For years I called the owners "Mr. and Mrs. Readmore.") Not only did Readmore's have the best selection of books and comics, they had penny candy and one of those enormous old Coke machines with an open top. You had to pull your bottle along a slot and up through a hatch that opened when you put your money in. Once, I got my hand caught in there.

I remember the first time I rode all the way downtown by myself: south on Harrison, west on Sheridan, south on Lincoln (past the school), west on Center to the courthouse square. It was only a couple of miles, but at the time it seemed an impossible distance. I stopped in to visit my father at his firm's law offices on the second floor of the Lake City Bank Building. (I don't remember why—probably to ask him for money to spend at Readmore's.) He must have been busy, but he took time to visit with me, show me around the offices, and introduce me to his partners. I can still remember the smell of that place: a spicy blend of pipe tobacco and old law books.

I kept raising the seat and handlebars on my old red Schwinn until I finally outgrew it and traded it in for a used three-speed. My last bike was also a red Schwinn—a five-speed touring model my parents gave me when I was in high school. I got rid of it about sixteen years ago. Loretta and I had quit riding, and our bikes were just gathering dust and taking up space in the garage. But I'd like to ride again sometime. I'd like to once again feel the exhilaration of the wind in my face as I coast downhill.

The trouble is, you can't coast downhill without pedaling uphill first.

I want to ride my bicycle;

I want to ride my bike.

I want to ride my bicycle;

I want to ride it where I like.

—Freddie Mercury

Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

I recently began reading Treasure Island again. It's been at least 30 years since I last read it, and I'd forgotten what a cracking good story it is. (By the way, have you read it? If not, you should. Here's a link to Project Gutenberg, where it's available as a free download. Go ahead—I'll wait... Finished? Good! We'll continue...)

Robert Louis Stevenson was single-handedly responsible for just about everything we know (or think we know) about pirates: from peg legs and parrots to treasure maps and the dreaded "Black Spot." Without Treasure Island, there would be no Pirates of the Caribbean—not to mention Pirates of the Channel Islands, a mystery dinner theater script I wrote for the Gypsy Players and Murder-in-Mind Productions (apologies for the shameless plug).

I felt compelled to re-read the book after watching a recent adaptation on the SyFy Channel and hearing myself say, again and again, "I'm pretty sure that wasn't in the book." (By the way, why is it now the SyFy Channel, instead of the SciFi Channel? And what do pirates have to do with science fiction?) I have to admit that Eddie Izzard did a fine job as Long John Silver, but for the most part I was very disappointed. I particularly disliked the way the characters of Dr. Livesey and Squire Trelawney were portrayed: Livesey as a sniveling coward and Trelawney as a snobbish, greedy bully. At one point, Jim Hawkins seriously considers throwing in his lot with the pirates. No wonder, considering what jerks his companions are.

Give me the 1950 Disney version any day. It's a faithful adaptation, perfectly cast (with the possible exception of glaringly American child actor Bobby Driscoll as Jim Hawkins). Robert Newton is especially brilliant. To quote Wikipedia, his Long John Silver "became the standard for screen portrayals of pirates. A West Country native where many famous English pirates hailed from, Newton is credited with popularizing the stereotypical West Country 'pirate voice' by exaggerating his West Country accent. Newton has become the 'patron saint' of the annual International Talk Like a Pirate Day on September 19." (That's right. If it wasn't for Walt Disney and Robert Newton, pirates would never have known how to say "Arrgh.")

My parents were married on August 17, 1950—the hottest day of the year. My father, stifling in his wedding clothes, went to the movie theater to cool off. It was one of the few places that was air conditioned in those days. The movie was Disney's Treasure Island. I don't know if he was able to thoroughly enjoy it at the time—he had other things on his mind. But it was to become one of his favorite movies.

Arrgh, mateys—shiver me timbers if it don't be one of me own favorites, as well!

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done for the rest—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

Duck Tale

WARNING: The following TRUE story may be considered too graphic for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

I had all sorts of short-lived pets growing up—from the mundane (goldfish and hamsters), to the unusual (frogs and crawdads). They invariably ended up buried in milk cartons in our back yard. Perhaps the strangest and shortest-lived was the duck that belonged to my friend Bill and me.

When I was a kid growing up in Warsaw, Indiana, we lived on the edge of town, just a few blocks from a duck farm. The kids in the neighborhood were in awe and a little in fear of the owner of the farm, the man we called "Old Man Beyers." There were stories that the fence surrounding the farm was electrified and would fry you if you touched the wrong part, and that Old Man Beyers always carried a shotgun—if he caught you trespassing, he'd fill you full of buckshot. Of course, none of the stories stopped us from taking the shortcut cross his field.

One day, inevitably, Old Man Beyers caught Bill and me trespassing. Instead of giving us the butt-load of buckshot we were expecting, he took us to his duck pond and showed us his ducks. "Do you want to take one home?" he asked us.

Oh, boy, did we!

I don't remember the duck's name. We had him for such a short time, maybe we never got around to naming him. We made a pen for him in Bill's back yard, which was adjacent to my back yard, so that I could come and visit him any time. Old Man Beyers gave us enough duck food to last a few days and told us where we could buy more. As it turned out, we didn't need more.

A day or two after we brought the duck home, Bill showed up at my house, crying.

"He's dead!" he sobbed.

"Who?"

"Our duck! Aliens got him!"

"Aliens?!"

Bill showed me the scene of the crime. There was the duck's body, huddled in one corner of the pen. But where was the head?

"It must have been aliens!" Bill said, "Who else would take the head and leave the body behind? And there's no blood!" There was a certain logic in this.

We buried the body in the empty field across from Bill's house. We never did find out what happened to the head. Our parents told us it was probably a dog, or maybe a fox. But we preferred to think that our duck was the subject of some bizarre alien experiment.

Who knows? Maybe he's still alive in some way—out there exploring new worlds and new civilizations, boldly going where no duck has gone before. I'd like to think so.

Young at Heart

It's the first weekend in May, which means it's the opening weekend of another Fairy Tales in the Park season. Every year, members of the Ventura County theatre community get together to write, direct, and perform free shows from May through September, in parks throughout Ventura County, California.

My friends John and Roxanne Diesel started Fairy Tales in the Park in 1995. When I joined the troupe in 1996, performances were only at Rancho Simi Park in Simi Valley (at the amphitheatre in front of the duck pond, where performances were occasionally interrupted by a duck living under the stage). Since then, the program has expanded to include four additional locations throughout the county.

This is real seat-of-the-pants theatre, with no stage manager or stage crew, and usually no stage. Costumes and props are kept to a minimum; in fact, the original intention was that we would be able to carry everything we needed for a performance in a trunk (hence our name: "The Gypsies-in-a-Trunk Players"). Performances always end with our theme song, which we invite the audience to sing along with us:

Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you,
If you’re young at heart.
For it’s hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind,
If you’re young at heart.

And if you should survive to a hundred and five,
Look at all you’ll derive out of being alive.
And here is the best part—
You have a head start,
Because you are among the very young at heart.

This weekend and next, my friends Gabriel Vega, Chris Carnicelli, and I will be reprising a wacky, wild-west version of Peter Pan that we first performed five years ago. If you're in the area, I hope you'll join us.

You'll discover what I've known since I discovered Fairy Tales in the Park—that there is something truly special about children's theatre. It really does keep you "young at heart."

Grasshopper from the Future

When I was in fifth grade, my friends and I believed in everything. We had absolutely no doubt concerning the existence of ghosts, aliens, big foot, or anything else that was marvelous and strange. (One or two of us still believed in Santa Claus, but I won't mention any names.) We were encouraged in our beliefs by our fifth grade teacher, Mr. Harmon, the Fox Mulder of his generation. "Nothing is impossible," he told us. And why not? It was the space age. In just a few years, America would put a man on the moon.

One of our most cherished beliefs was the notion of time travel. We were all huge fans of the Irwin Allen TV series, The Time Tunnel, in which two scientists traveled back and forth in time each week, meeting famous people in history like Davy Crockett, and trying unsuccessfully to prevent such disasters as the sinking of the Titanic. (I'm talking about two separate episodes, by the way. I don't mean to imply that Davy Crockett was a passenger on the Titanic, although that would have certainly made an interesting story.)

We even built our own time tunnel, using a coffee can, several feet of wire, and a six-volt lantern battery. When we showed it to Mr. Harmon, he was impressed. "How are you going to test it?" he asked. We hadn't thought of that. Obviously, none of us would fit inside a coffee can. One of us could put a hand or finger in there, but that might be risky. We had to find a test subject—a small test subject.

A couple of us had pet mice or hamsters, and we considering using one of them. In the end, however, we decided to go with a grasshopper. There were plenty of them around. And there was no danger of forming an attachment to a grasshopper; if it did disappear into the space-time continuum, it would be no great loss. We captured the largest one we could find and put it into the coffee can.

There must have been a moment of hesitation before Thomas Edison flipped the switch to send current to the first light bulb, or before Alexander Graham Bell spoke the first words into a telephone. So must there be a moment when all great inventors pause at the brink of destiny, posing the fundamental question: “Will my invention work, or will it fail?” This was such a moment.

What if it worked? What if our grasshopper disappeared, and somewhere—some when—reappeared out of nowhere? “Wow!” people would say. “A grasshopper from the future!” (Or “past”—we weren’t really sure which direction he would be traveling.)

We connected the battery, and...

Nothing happened.

As I recall, we weren’t very disappointed. It was a long shot at best. But I have to say I am a little disappointed now. Nearly fifty years have gone by, and we still haven’t solved the mysteries of time and space.

On the other hand, there are plenty of grasshoppers around. Who’s to say one of them wasn’t sent back in time by some kids in the future?

Makes you think, doesn’t it?