I started reading Dandelion Wine in high school, and I read it every summer without fail. It has affected my psyche more than I'd like to admit; I found myself admitting to a friend that my idea of a great l
ove was the one between Helen Loomis and Bill Forrester. It's genuine, not their circumstances, but the current running between them, thanks to Bradbury's eccentric descriptions.
Now, don't assume that I'm into creepy cougar relationships between an octogenarian (or maybe older) and a young newspaper reporter. I'm in love with this type of love because they're meant to be, they're just a few decades off. Bill is rash, clumsy, but graceful all at the same time. Helen is stubborn, full of wanderlust, and is peculiar enough to be interesting. Their personalities gravitate towards each other, but they are separated by the time in between them.
The idea of waiting for something wonderful, earthshaking, of tailored perfection-it warms the heart. My heart, at least. It's horrific to think of those years alone, when the person that makes you happiest is out there. What if you had the chance to skip those years? Would it be the same, or would it change everything if he was readily available? Is the vintage half the greatness?
Are you supposed to wait?