Ray relished the dream of forging into the unknown vastness of space - “It is good to renew one’s wonder,” said the philosopher. He’s best known today for “Fahrenheit 451,” the cautionary tale of an oppressive future that stands with “1984” and “Brave New World.” But even that short novel, a perennial bestseller and assigned reading for millions of students, is more poetry than prediction. It seems impossible that a man who burst with such life, for whom everything was a wonder, an inspiration for poetry, a reason to shout, “I love you!” at the whole world, could have left us. He let loose a dose of exuberant Bradbury laughter and invited us to meet him for a beer sometime (which I did, though it took years I was fortunate to spend extended time with him on three later occasions). No haughty celebrity, he was delighted that two of his admirers would take the time to find his house. Ray came out, dressed in a tux, waiting for a limo to take him to some affair or other - he never did learn to drive a car - and spent a few minutes chatting. We were thrilled when she said she would ask the great author if he had a moment for us. We knocked and a woman answered (we learned later it was one of Ray’s four daughters). The perfect house for the man who gave us “Dandelion Wine” and “Something Wicked This Way Comes” and “The Halloween Tree,” those magic-realist meditations on the hidden wonders and terrors of small-town life. Spacious and yellow, the side porch sported a grinning Jack O’Lantern and, no joke, a black cat.

We drove up into Cheviot Hills, a wealthy but not ostentatious community next to the glitzier, more plastic Beverly Hills. “Hey,” I said as we sat in the sun-dappled grass of Rosedale Cemetery, “I think I still have a letter that Ray Bradbury wrote me in 1975 or ’76, with his return address. My friend Shanna and I had gone in search of the ghostliest graveyards in the City of Angels. The air was fine and crisp and clear that October day in Los Angeles.

Bradbury green town