How Mr. Bradbury Tied It All Together: A Christmas Gift

HOW MR. BRADBURY TIED IT ALL TOGETHER: A CHRISTMAS GIFT

BY Noel Laflin

December 14, 2012

 

 

“Dear boy, strange child, who must have known the years
And reckoned time and smelled sweet death from flowers
In the far churchyard.
It was a message to the future, to myself.
Knowing one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small
And fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.
What did it say that made me weep?

I remember you.
I remember you.”

Closing lines of Ray Bradbury’s poem, “Remembrance”

 

It was the week before Christmas and I was in need of a minor miracle. 

As fate would have it, the sought after intervention arrived in my mailbox disguised in the form of a small brown padded envelope.

All other correspondence was tossed aside once I spied my prize.  Feeling the package – there was something hard and rectangular within.  Upon shaking the envelope – something rattled.  I stared at the handwriting – yes, it was indeed addressed to me - with a return in the upper left corner showing it came from Los Angeles.  I grabbed a knife and carefully sliced the packet open.  A tape cassette in a clear plastic case, wrapped in a single sheet of tan colored paper slid out and into my open palm.  There was something printed on the piece of plain paper now turned wrap.  I carefully unfolded the page and stared in quiet wonder. 

An Old English text header proclaimed: Christmas Wishes 1986.    

Below that was printed “from Maggie & Ray Bradbury.”

And directly beneath their names began a poem composed of thirty-two beautifully crafted lines; the first of which began, “My father ties, I do not tie, my Christmas tie.”

There was a hand-written note printed above the title which simply read: “For Noel Laflin.”  This was followed by a wonderful signature: “Ray Bradbury – Dec. ’86.”

I was speechless.

But, what of the tape cassette? 

There was a handwritten title on side one.  It simply said, “Remembrance.”

The minor miracle suddenly lay in the palm of my hand.

Thank you, Mr. Bradbury.

 

The whole thing started with a sign language assignment – the final project for this mid level class.  You see, I had been living with Jeremy – who was deaf (or hearing impaired, if you please) for the past year.  And, although Jeremy and I were communicating just fine, I could not help but feel that I was lacking in the finer skills needed in the art of American Sign Language (ASL).  And thus the evening classes at Santa Ana College. 

Initially, I joined a beginner’s class, only to be told that I was well beyond the basics of finger spelling, etc.  And, so I suddenly found myself transferred to the next level.  I guess Jeremy had led me well so far.  In fact, I was already dreaming in “sign” most nights and knew instinctively that I was progressing nicely.  But, as I said, there was so much more to learn - and like any foreign language, practice was the key.

So, this final project was to sign along to a piece (which could be a story, poem or song) that would be around five minutes in length.  In other words, each of us was to haul in our own tape recording of said story, poem or song and sign it to the class and instructor as it played.

I knew what I wanted to tackle from the get-go.  The piece in mind had been hanging framed upon my bedroom wall for a dozen years: “Remembrance” – by Ray Bradbury. 

A copy of this poem was first given to me by my mother.  In fact, it arrived in a letter she sent to me when I was a kid working at summer camp.  One can still see the crease marks by which it was neatly folded before being placed in the letter.  Mom had carefully clipped the full page poem from a magazine that highlighted this new piece in a fanciful blue border featuring woodcut engravings of leaves, bees, birds and squirrels – images from the poem itself.

 

 I was blown away upon the first reading as I had never known that my favorite author even attempted poetry – not to mention that it was so damn good!  I must have re-read “Remembrance” a dozen times that week – constantly finding new joy with each review.  I memorized the opening and closing paragraphs and can recite them to this day.  In fact there was a time when I could recite the entire poem – but that was a dozen years in the future.

 

Now, I had always been a fan of the man since I’d first had the privilege of escorting him across the Fullerton Junior College campus for a lecture way back in 1972. How I was chosen to lead and chat with the short, stocky legend in thick-as-Coke-bottle-horn-rimmed glasses, I do not know.  All I do know for certain is that I have never forgotten the honor.  A year later, as fate would have it, I very nearly bumped into Mr. Bradbury and his wife at Cal State Fullerton.  (Why were we always meeting on college campuses?)  I was hoping to catch the opening night performance of “Dandelion Wine.”  I was too late, however – the place was sold out.  As my date and I dejectedly headed back to the parking lot, I could see another couple heading directly our way on the narrow pathway.  Even in the dark, his thick glasses gave him away.

“Mr. Bradbury!” I offered in greeting, as we clumsily tried to pass one another on the narrow sidewalk; “Your play is sold out!  I don’t suppose you could sneak us in the back door perhaps?”  It might have been lame, but I was trying to think very quickly on my feet.

“I’m awfully sorry, son – but I don’t think I could pull that off.  Wish I could.  As we are running a little late, I bid you both good night.” 

And with that, the famous author/playwright/poet/screenwriter and his wife continued on.

“Well,” I told my friend, “it was worth a shot.  Nice guy though, huh?”

My date concurred.  Although we had missed the performance, we did get to meet the man privately, albeit briefly, and exchange a pleasant word.  It was, after all, of some consolation and still makes for a fine memory four decades later.

 In between these two unplanned meetings I made it my mission in life to read everything – or so I naively thought at the time - that he had published.  Obviously I had not discovered the poetry as yet.  However, when it came to his fiction, I had given away at least a dozen copies of my personal favorites over Christmas; they included “Dandelion Wine,” “Something Wicked This Way Comes” and various collections of his vast array of short stories to friends and family. 

Now, the problem with the sign language class assignment all these years later, however, was the fact that there were no known recordings of “Remembrance.”  I had either called or visited a half dozen libraries inquiring after the matter.  It simply did not exist.  At this point I could have moved on with a new piece to work with or contact Bradbury’s publisher directly to see if I was overlooking a recorded source of some sort.  As I have always been a sucker for long-shots, I sent off a written request to New York outlining my dilemma.  It was early November.  I waited for some sort of official answer.  Nothing came that month.  December was barreling its way through pretty rapidly as well before the unexpected packet showed up on December 18^th, the very day the assignment was due.  And although a poor back-up plan had already been made – a recording of me reading the poem – I now potentially had the real deal, not to mention a great story at hand.

Having popped the cassette into my own portable tape player, I sat back and nervously waited while the initial static hissed during the first few seconds of play.  Then the audible sound of another cassette player clicked on.  A distinct sound of shuffled papers could be heard – along with the faint chirping of a sparrow drifting through an open window.   And then, the most welcomed voice of all commenced.  Mr. Bradbury began: “Early December, 1986 – “Remembrance.” 

“And this is where we went, I thought,
Now here, now there, upon the grass
Some forty years ago.
I had returned and walked along the streets
And saw the house where I was born
And grown and had my endless days.”

I sat rapture-bound for the next five minutes.  My class was to begin in one hour.  I packed up my treasure and drove to school.  I played the newly arrived gift in the old truck’s cassette player all the way there and for just a bit more while I sat in the parking lot – all the while trying to sort it out.  I finally wiped away an errant tear, smiled and finally laughed with relief while I grabbed the tape and player.  I headed across yet one more college campus with the voice of Mr. Bradbury at my waiting fingertips.  It was a good sign.

There rests upon my old bedroom wall two framed poems.  One is positioned just above the other.  They have been in the same location for twenty-six years now.  They are dear to me.  Both are gifts from ghosts of Christmas past.  And there is a strange, yet wonderful tie that binds them.