The Lightning Rod Salesman

When I was around, I think, 8 years old, I picked up a book to read while waiting for something or other. After I had read a few pages I had to put the book down to go do whatever it was I had to do. But in that brief time I was drawn in by the lyricism of the narrative voice and captured by a sense of wonder that took me instantly and deeply into the story. I was suddenly so thoroughly in a place where magic walked out of storm and down a quiet October street that I could smell the turning leaves in the fall air and taste the ozone bite of lightning on the wind. I could feel around me the unseen forces abroad in the very real world that lived in the pages of that book. The opening of that novel was so compelling and intriguing that I could not forget it. I needed to read the rest of the magic; I had to experience the words.

Then my brother gave the book back to the friend he had borrowed it from.

The book hadn’t had a cover and I didn’t notice the author or title at the top of the page. For years I did not know what the book was. It literally haunted my memory.

Then one day I picked up a book. I don’t remember if it was in a library or a bookstore, but I knew immediately that I had found the book. It was like finding Shangri-La, King Solomon’s Mines, the Maltese Falcon, the Golden Bippy – name a coveted prize and that is how I felt finding that book on the shelf.

I held in my hands Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes.

{“But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?” Inserted as an aid for those readers who may find this necessary.}

I love Ray Bradbury’s writing and this book is very special to me. It could be that at the time I was about the age of the main characters, and one of a pair of best friends – one dark, one light – as in the book. It was easy to identify.

But more than that, and the tease I had of it, is the book itself. The vision and the language, the characters and setting, the blending of reality and magic within the world and the intrusion of the otherworldly into our lives – all of these are woven into a fabric of Autumn wind, shadows and darkness tempered by friendship, dreams and love. The story conjures chill night air and dangers that manifest from shadows and human desire. We are tempted, threatened and rescued from and through the magic. Words and deeds are powerful, life itself is an adventure and human life is the prize because our humanity is wherein lies our strength.

It has been decades, more than a lifetime really, since I read the book. I don’t remember many details but the essence of it resonates in my mind. There is always the question of whether a book can live up to the memory of it. Can an adult feel the same about the book as the child who first read it? I have nothing in common with any of the characters anymore. I am no longer a child, and while I am now more the age of the father I have no son. I do share the oppressions of age, perhaps not the best of similarities to share. I’m even older than the author was when he wrote the book.

But can Bradbury disappoint? And it is October, the season is right, and I need to re-read this book regardless of the risk. I wonder what I will find in it now.