When I returned stateside, I quickly wrote “Night Summons,” a short story that combines all of these images and ponderings. The story was just published in Rosebud magazine #52. The story is about a husband and wife who live in one of those country homes way, way out, somewhere on the Plain. They have no children. They only have each other, and their marriage has become dull, predictable, loveless. Until one night, the woman rises out of bed and inexplicably walks through the midnight-mizzle all the way out to Stonehenge. She does not know why she does this. She just feels drawn. The story is about catharsis, redemption, and second chances afforded by the mystical pull of an ancient monument. I hope you’ll check it out. And by sheer coincidence, there is a beautiful essay about Ray Bradbury, written by his friend and neighbor, Bill Goodwin.

(The 2006 graphic novel adaptation of “The Homecoming.” Art by Dave McKean)



“The Homecoming”

Where to Find It: The October Country; The Stories of Ray Bradbury

First Published: Mademoiselle, October 1946

Plot Synopsis: A foundling human child is raised by a family of lovable monsters. As the extended family gathers at their rococo Northern Illinois mansion for an All Hallows reunion, Timothy, lacking supernatural powers, feels like an outcast.

Critique: Bradbury was in his mid-twenties when he wrote this story, yet he was already taking traditional genre fiction into uncharted territory. Originality of story combined with narratives steeped in humanity, all told in a poetic style, were fast becoming his hallmarks. “The Homecoming” is an allegory for Bradbury’s own childhood, a time when he felt the part of the misfit, the outsider, even while surrounded by a loving and doting extended family. The child as outsider is a theme Bradbury would continue to examine, but never again with such delightfully gothic aplomb.

Anecdote: The story behind the publication of “The Homecoming” is legendary. Bradbury submitted the story to the pulp magazine Weird Tales; it was promptly rejected. The editor wanted a more traditional horror story. Bradbury’s originality was now hindering him in the pages of the pulps. On a whim, he submitted the tale to Mademoiselle, a well-respected slick publication that was open to literary fiction. An office boy discovered the story in the voluminous slush pile and brought it to the attention of fiction editor Rita Smith (sister of author Carson McCullers). Mademoiselle not only published the story, the editors shifted the entire tone and look of the October, 1946 issue to a Halloween theme, with Bradbury’s story at the center. New Yorker artist Charles Addams was hired to paint the accompanying art. And the office boy who first eye-balled the tale in the submission pile? Truman Capote.

By the way, over the last five years I have done more than 150 speaking engagements at public libraries, universities, high schools, senior centers, conferences and symposiums, as well as writers groups. If you’re interested in booking a presentation, contact me at mr.electrico@comcast.net or on Twitter @Sam__Weller.



March 3rd
Eugene, Oregon Public Library
100 West 10th Avenue, Eugene, OR 97401-3035
2pm-4pm

March 29th
Vigo County Public Library
1 Library Square, Terre Haute, Indiana 47807-3609
4pm

March 29th
Marshall, Illinois Public Library
612 Archer Avenue, Marshall, IL 62441-1268
7pm

April 3
Libertyville High School
Writers Week
708 W Park Ave, Libertyville, IL 60048
8:45am

April 11

West Hollywood Library
625 North San Vicente Boulevard
West Hollywood, CA 90069
7pm

Where to Find It: A Medicine for Melancholy, The Stories of Ray Bradbury

First Published: January 1957, Playboy

Plot Synopsis: A man who idolizes Pablo Picasso encounters his hero creating a masterpiece in the sand on a beach in the South of France.

Backstory: Bradbury got the inspiration for the story one day while walking on the beach along with his wife and some friends. He picked up a discarded Popsicle stick and started etching in the sand. At this point, he thought about a man who always wanted to own an original Picasso and one day stumbled upon the renowned artist creating a masterpiece on the beach. The creation, of course, would last only as long as the tide would stay out.

Critique: An excellent example of Bradbury at his most tightly crafted game. Short and taut, “In a Season of Calm Weather” is just a few pages, but tells a compelling story of celebrating the moment—in this case, the moment on the beach where George Smith watches from afar as his hero creates his masterpiece in the sand. The story also features a seldom discussed example of Bradbury’s appreciation of French prose poetry. (See Echoes pgs. 210-211.) Bradbury’s lengthy description of Picasso’s sand creation represents his further literary exploration of the highly evocative work of French writer Saint-James Perse.

Anecdote: “In a Season of Calm Weather” was produced into the 1969 feature film Picasso Summer starring Albert Finney. The film suffered from myriad production difficulties and has seldom been seen since its original theatrical release. It occasionally airs on late night cable television. Bradbury wrote the screenplay, but it was largely scrapped by the film’s director, Serge Bourguignon. The short story was later collected under the title “Picasso Summer.” Bradbury told me that he actually prefers this title, stating that it is more succinct. From my own point of view, I favor the original story title, as it has the ring of John Stienbeck’s early influence on Bradbury. I also adhere to Bradbury’s own mantra (a mantra he has frequently defied, by the way), that “a writer should never mess with his younger self” by later rewriting published works.

One Last Point: I firmly maintain that the epic production failure of the 1969 film Picasso Summer—replete with Spanish Bullfighters, arrangements with Pablo Picasso to play himself, and comedian Bill Cosby serving as co-producer—would make for a great short comedic memoir. Ray Bradbury agrees, but due to his advancing age, this book will likely never see light.

Thank you for joining me for the 12 Blogs of Christmas!

Peace and Love!

Sam

In 2004, the city took a tremendous step in the right direction. After a $23 million renovation, the opulent and old Genesee Theatre in downtown Waukegan, reopened. This is the very theatre that Ray Bradbury went to as a boy to see movies and magicians. The theatre was restored to its original majesty, looking as new and resplendent as the day it first opened in Christmas day, 1927. Since 2004, the newly refurbished Genesee has hosted big name comedians and musical acts. But one thing is missing—and this is something that Ray and I have talked about at length—there needs to be other businesses in downtown Waukegan. An inviting coffee shop. More restaurants. An ice cream parlor. A bookstore. There must be establishments for people to go to before and after the shows at the Genesee. The last time I was there, there wasn’t much. People came to Waukegan to attend a show at the Genesee, and quickly fled town immediately after the performance. Somehow, I believe, even in this deplorable economy, the city of Waukegan must court small business owners and wide-eyed entrepreneurs by offering them financial incentives and tax breaks to bring their business to downtown Waukegan. If this were to happen, rather then the post show exodus at the Genesee, downtown Waukegan would become revitalized. People could sit out on the streets on summer night at cafes and coffee shops. The downtown would begin drawing more people, residents and tourists alike.

There is an interesting comparison to make with the two MLB teams in Chicago. With the Chicago White Sox, fans have traditionally come to the ballpark, dined, watched the game, and then left soon after. With Chicago’s other team, the Cubs, fans have always made a day of it: arriving hours before a game, eating and drinking, and staying in the neighborhood long after the final pitch to do more of the same. Waukegan could take a cue from Wrigleyville when it comes to attracting retail and restaurants around Genesee.

The next step the city of Waukegan needs to contend with is dealing with the blight that is the lakefront. Years ago, Waukegan offered pristine beaches and parks along the waterfront. But industry soon marched in and factories began belching out toxins and filth, polluting and marring the once gorgeous land and water. I realize that a clean-up of this magnitude would be costly and would require a tremendous undertaking. But what resident wouldn’t want a clean and inviting waterfront, with sandy beaches for swimming and picnicking?

Instead of this, however, periodically over the years, the city of Waukegan has looked to legalized gambling on the waterfront as a solution. This, in my opinion, is the worst thing a municipality can do. One need look no further than other Illinois cities that have incorporated riverboat casinos into the mix. Elgin, Aurora, and Joliet all offer gambling and in terms of revitalizing the downtown areas of the cities, they did very little. I’m certainly no prude, I have nothing against gambling, but I can say with complete confidence that a lakefront casino is not the answer to envisioning Waukegan as a premiere lakefront destination. Instead, clean up the lakefront. Design and build a beautiful park. Construct a band shell for evening concerts from May through December. Plant trees and flowers and gardens and tall grasses. Make Waukegan’s lakefront the envy of every community up and down the western shore of Lake Michigan.

This can be done!

And then, finally, there is the issue of what to do to properly celebrate the life and legacy of Ray Bradbury, born in Waukegan, Illinois, on August 22,1920. Over the last few decades, the town has taken some great steps in the right direction. The public library has a room named for Bradbury. There is Ray Bradbury Park, not far from Bradbury’s boyhood home. Bradbury even has a star on the city’s walk of fame (which also includes Jack Benny, among others).

But all of this is not enough. The most important component in valuing and celebrating Bradbury is conspicuously absent: A Ray Bradbury Museum. Many great American writers have museums: Hemingway, Poe, Steinbeck, Charles Schultz, Willa Cather, and so many others. This is a subject that Ray and I have discussed over and over again. It is something he would desperately like to see happen. But no one has ever called. No one has come forth with a serious proposal.

The obvious locations are the old Carnegie Library, where Ray first discovered books (this library stands vacant today) or the city could purchase Ray’s grandparent’s old home at 619 W. Washington Street and restore it to the way it looked circa 1925.
I have spoken to city leaders about this over the years. I discussed it with the Mayor at an event I did at city hall to kick off the publication of The Bradbury Chronicles: The Life of Ray Bradbury. They were interested. Fans and Bradbury’s own family have all told me, emphatically, yes! Let’s do this. Ray would love it. It would be good for the city, as part of the overall, long-term blueprint for a clean, inviting, glorious new Green Town, Illinois.

And so, the inevitable and practical question arises: who is going to pay for all this? I say, solutions can be found. Put the plan in action, reach for the stars as Bradbury so often has done. Jump off the cliff and build wings on the way down!

It may take TIFs. It will take an aggressive corporate development campaign for sponsorship. Perhaps cultivating celebrity donations from the connected and wealthy list of luminaries who have praised Bradbury over the decades. There must certainly be federal money available for a full-scale revitalization. Non-profit environmental activist groups could be tapped for assistance for the lakefront clean up. All of this is achievable and will, in the end, only benefit and re-imagine a city that deserves to be rebuilt!

Green Town, Illinois. Better known as Waukegan.

(Note: Thank you to Cathy Akers-Jordan for inspiring this post)

As a kid, I recall my brother blasting the Pixies from our garage, which was converted into his bedroom. “This Monkey’s Gone to Heaven.” “Here Comes Your Man.” “Debaser.”

“Debaser.” Damn. Have you ever heard “Debaser”? I love this song.

The music my brother played for me was at once beautiful and, at turns, cacophonous and in your face—raw, melodic, rocking. Punctuated by the wraith screams of frontman Black Francis. It was punk art-rock.

The Pixies released five records in total, from 1987 to 1991 (four full-length discs and one EP). Their last CD, Trompe Le Monde, has been on serious constant rotation in my car for the better part of a year and a half. The heavily textured, melodic and loud guitar riffs; the varied lyrical themes awash in mythic and pop-cultural imagery; the punk simplicity of the bass lines; the tight-as-hell drum work. Damn. I need to listen to it again right now!

When I was working on Listen to the Echoes: The Ray Bradbury Interviews, I had a long conversation with my publishers about who should write the Foreword to the book. The predictable names arose: Hefner, Spielberg, etc. We quickly agreed that we wanted someone different. A writer who would pen something more original. Someone who would write a personal, smart, and new essay. Hefner, God bless him—his PJs, his grotto, and his pipe (so to speak)—had told his story before. (I interviewed him at length in the Mansion library in 2003 for The Bradbury Chronicles: The Life of Ray Bradbury.)

I knew right away who I really wanted to write the Foreword to Echoes: Black Francis of Pixies. After all, when Francis and the Pixies parted ways in 1993, he went on to record a slew of remarkable solo albums (as Frank Black) including the 1996 homage to Ray Bradbury, The Cult of Ray. In my heart, I knew that Francis would write something cool. I knew that he was an unexpected choice. I also thought it would illustrate Ray Bradbury’s wide appeal. Ray knows and loves that the rock world admires and understands him.

The Pixies reunited in 2003 and have been touring successfully ever since. I tracked down the band’s manager and fired off an email. I had a good feeling that things would work out when the management responded. The band was, on that very day, performing at the Olympia Theater in Dublin, Ireland. Some Bradbury magic was certainly at play. Ray Bradbury visited that very theater in October 1953, soon after he had arrived in Ireland to write the screenplay for Moby Dick for director John Huston. Bradbury sat in the front row at the Olympia and watched Laurel and Hardy perform live, on the very same stage the Pixies were playing nearly 60 years later. I wrote the Pixies management back right away and shared the story of Bradbury in the Olympia. (I later found out from Black Francis that when he heard the story, he mentioned it to an old bartender at the Olympia. She told him she was working there all those years ago, and had seen Laurel and Hardy, too! What are the odds!?)

A few months passed as I waited for a response from Black Francis. Then, one night, I received a text. It was from Francis. The Pixies were in Chicago, performing a string of shows at the Aragon Ballroom and he asked, simply, if I would like to come out to see them play.

I went. It rocked. I love the Aragon. I love great and loud rock music (see my August 2011 blog post). The band was touring behind the 20th anniversary of their classic Doolittle album, performing it in its entirety, B-sides and all. After the show, I met Black Francis, briefly, in the rafters of the Aragon. We shook hands and he said he was on board to write the Foreword.

And a few months later he delivered it. I love what he wrote. It is short, and sweet, and brimming over with heart. It was written with the same sort of gee-whiz honesty that Bradbury lives by. I particularly love the line, “I think of Ray Bradbury the man, and I often think of pizza in a cardboard box.”

Francis was pulling a Bradbury, here. He was recalling a memory of seeing Bradbury, once, years ago, at an LA area event, and Bradbury was eating pizza. Francis was also using metaphor. Of life’s simple joys. Metaphor, as Ray Bradbury has stated over and over again, is his magician’s secret.

And then there is the passage: “Ray Bradbury loves you. He loves the whole damn thing, from the most distant burning star to your silly haircut. It’s a Jacques Tati love, a Yoko Ono love, an Alfred Hitchcock kind of love. It’s not fiction. It’s a human saying yes to life itself, yes, yes, yes. Ray Bradbury validates not only humanity but every molecule in this exploding soup of a universe.”

I knew the first time I read these lines that Francis wrote them on a creative bender. I have written long enough to feel that groove. I know it. I could feel Bradbury pouring through his fingertips and straight into his Foreword.

When Listen to the Echoes was released in the summer of 2010, Black Francis joined Ray and me for an incredible book signing in Glendale, Califiornia. I invited Francis and his lovely wife Violet over to Ray’s house, where we visited and chatted and laughed. Ray even told the story of Mr. Electrico. He told it with the same zest and gusto and aplomb he always does, as if it’s the first time he has shared the story. Black Francis and Violet toured the house. They marveled at the museum of Bradbury’s magical life. And when they left I could see tears in Violet’s eyes. She had been moved by that visit. Black Francis had been moved, too. The same way Ray Bradbury has stirred the emotions of readers the world over for the better part of eight decades!

Black Francis and I have stayed in touch. And when the Pixies performed in Milwaukee last spring, we met up for lunch, visited, I joined him as he did his laundry and he watched me as I drank many cold beers. We talked about France and history and cinema and literature and his ideas for books and screenplays and music and Ray and Ray and Ray….

Later that night I ended up going with the entire Pixies—Black Francis, Joey Santiago, David Lovering, and Kim Deal—to their show. It was completely surreal. As we road across dark Milwaukee, I remembered what a 7th grade English teacher once said to me:

“Ray Bradbury’s universe sure attracts some really kind, really cool people.”

So much can be said about Maggie Bradbury. No question, she enabled Ray Bradbury’s career. In the late 1940s, while she took the 7:30 morning train all the way across Los Angeles every single workday, acting as the household breadwinner in an era when women didn’t dare do such things, her spouse was allowed to stay home and work on his writing. He honed his craft, shaped his style, sent his material to editors across the continent in the Big Apple. He would not have had this luxury if she didn’t bring home a paycheck. He would have been forced to get a day job and this, very likely, would have been the death knell for his writing career. The proverbial butterfly would have been squashed and the future of high-imaginative literature would have been altered for all time.

We all owe Maggie Bradbury a debt of gratitude. But to understand just who this great woman truly was, we must go back to the very beginning….

Marguerite Susan McClure was born on January 16, 1922, the only child of Lonal and Anna McClure. She came from a rich genealogical background; among her family were the founders of McClure’s magazine. Another relative had invented the coupler that connected freight train cars. Her grandfather had married a full-blooded Cherokee Native American in the late 1800s. Marguerite’s father was a Los Angeles restaurateur. During the First World War, he served as head chef to General John Joseph Pershing, commander of the American Expeditionary Forces in France. In his lifetime, Lonal owned many restaurants in the Los Angeles area. But his greatest source of pride was his only child, delivered into a silver-spoon world that knew no want, no hardship, no poverty. The McClures were always well off, even as the Great Depression squelched the US economy.

Marguerite McClure attended school in Los Angeles and later enrolled at UCLA where she studied English and Spanish. She left the university just a few credit hours shy of earning her diploma. In the mid-1940s, she landed a job at Fowler Brothers Bookstore in downtown Los Angeles. And on a hot afternoon in 1946, while in the bookstore, she encountered the future. She spied a young man who was wearing a military-style trench coat even as the outside temperature soared. This young man had been called “Flash Gordon” and “Buck Rogers” by the East Coast literati. He was a pulp magazine writer who had gained recent prominence after one of his short stories had landed in the vaunted anthology, Best American Short Stories of the Year. But mostly, he was looked down upon as a pulp magazine writer—a teller of weird tales and dime detective yarns and stories of far outer space. And Marguerite McClure, spotting this twenty-something young man in her bookstore thought he was a thief. The bookshop had been the victim of recent thievery, and this strange kid, mulling about wearing the trench coat with deep pockets was awfully suspicious. Inquisitive, she talked to him. In turn, he told her of one of his recent publications and she was duly impressed. He asked her out for coffee which turned into cocktails (she loved martinis) which resulted in dinner. Quickly, they fell in love. On September 27, 1947, the same year Ray’s first book Dark Carnival was published, they were married. His best friend, Ray Harryhausen (cult stop-motion animation uber-hero) served as best man.

And that’s when Maggie went to work. She took the big red rail car across the city each day to an advertising agency as her husband stayed home and wrote tales of the planet Mars and of altered realities. His income was increasing exponentially, but without her guaranteed paycheck, he would not have had the luxury to focus on his fiction.

But in early 1949, Maggie was pregnant. This bit of news gave the needed push to Ray to hightail it into hyper-drive. He traveled to New York in the summer of ‘49 and over one dinner he sold two outlines for The Illustrated Man and The Martian Chronicles.

In the early years, Maggie Bradbury was the provider. As Ray has often said, this girl from a well-to-do background took a “vow of poverty” when she married. But money was never an issue. She loved Ray and she believed in him—even when they had only a handful of change in their bank account.

They were married for 56 years. And the vow of poverty paid off. He became, arguably, the single most influential author of 20th century popular culture, in large part, thanks to her. Her hard work in the very beginning yielded massive dividends. The man she believed in proved his worth to prompt some to say that he will one day be canonized alongside Shakespeare, Yeats, Melville, and Shaw—not to mention Welty, Fitzgerald, and his beloved Wells, Burroughs, Baum, and Poe.

To the very end, Maggie Bradbury was a towering personality. Her sense of humor was her rubber stamp. She had a nicotine rasp that ranged from high-falutin’ hilarity to lowbrow belly laughter. And she loved her books. LOVED THEM. The beams and rafters of the Bradbury house ached under the weight of them all, 7000 at last count. This was her primary passion. Her favorite author (besides a weird tale scribe named Ray) was Marcel Proust. She also had a complete set of Agatha Christie novels. She loved mysteries. And she adored history tomes of all shapes and sizes. She didn’t read only in English; Maggie was fluent in French, Spanish and Italian.

And she loved her cats. At one point, in the late 1950s, the Bradbury place was home to 22 felines. In recent years, the number had dwindled to a far more reasonable two: Win-Win and Ditzy. Today, these two kitties wander the rambling Bradbury house in Cheviot Hills in confusion, meowing plaintively, as if to ask: Where’s Mama?

And Maggie loved her wine. After 20 visits to France, she had been given a certificate of gastronomy for her great knowledge of the grape. She was quick to wax anatomical, twirling her glass in her nimble fingers and speaking of “nose” and “legs.” She was quick to offer a fine glass of Merlot to all whom she deemed worthy.

But most important is the resounding echo she leaves behind in her four daughters: Susan, Ramona, Bettina, and Alexandra; and eight grandchildren: Julia, Claire, Georgia, Mallory, Daniel, Casey-Ray, Samuel and Theodore.

On a personal front—during the last four years, I have been given the great lottery golden ticket honor of visiting the Bradbury home every two or three weeks. In this time, I talked and giggled with Maggie and really got to know her. One Saturday afternoon I handed her one of the books from my own collection—a special edition of The Martian Chronicles. It was back in 1949 that Maggie had typed the final manuscript of this book for her husband before it was whisked off to New York and into history. On the front flyleaf of my book, it reads:

“To my dearest Sam,
One of the joys of my life,
Marguerite M. Bradbury”

Holding this book in my hands now, I look back with gratitude. This great woman who altered literature forever had paid me notice. I was but a pebble in the pool of her life. I had somehow caused a ripple enough for her to say what she did. But she had caused a ripple in time. The living history of books was shaped and changed because of her. Forever. They say that in death comes eternity.

For Maggie Bradbury, it’s true.