Reminiscing

Ray Bradbury, man. He was one of the first influential writers that I really got into. I'm glad he made it to the ripe old age of ninety-one. 

It was the Illustrated Man that snagged me. I still have the copy that I borrowed from the Mid-Continent Public Library when I must have been about 12 (sorry, librarian friends, it's true). My aunt Ireta described it to me one night while we listened to music--mostly Metallica, Fleetwood Mac, Jon Secada--at her kitchen table and she gave me sips of her Zima. Of course, she completely butchered the plot. The only thing she nailed was that there was this guy and he had a lot of weird tattoos. We checked it out and I read it aloud to her while she cooked dinner. I've read it dozens of times since. We also read an unofficial and unflattering biography of Martha Stewart that summer. Ireta died of lupus several years ago, but those late nights spent at her table are still vivid. I'm glad I stole that book.