Dear Mr. Bradbury,

During the summer that I turned ten (1968), I made an important decision. Choosing from among my three greatest loves, I decided that I'd forego a career in baseball, and would set aside my determination to be President of these United States. When I grew up, I would be a writer. I even settled on a pen name that I would use, when that grand and glorious day arrived.

At the end of August I will turn fifty. Despairing of ever growing up (it is by turns wondrous and alarming to me that I feel but little removed from that boy of forty years ago), I've concluded that, for better or worse, I am as 'grown up' as I am likely ever to become. As I write this to you it is just past three in the morning here in Michigan; it is now Sunday and the first full day of summer has come and gone. After writing this letter to you I shall sleep well and dream dreams. And before this day has become yesterday, I will have commenced the writing of my first novel.

There are so many novels that I treasure, Mr. Bradbury. This week, knowing that I'd soon arise and meet at last my very own 'grand and glorious day,' I went to the local bookstore (and also our two used book stores) seeking without success for that novel I treasure most of all. So I went to the community library, where I knew my search would be rewarded, as it has been so very many times over these years of my youth.

Before starting my own novel later on today, I'll read a bit from that favorite of mine. I'll not do as I usually do with it, which is to take it entire and in one sitting, until it is drained and I am, once more, sated. This time I'll take it in sips, not so very different from Douglas Spaulding taking a sip of golden summer on a crisp winter day. And when I have finished the first draft of this first novel, I'll reward myself with my first-ever reading of 'Farewell Summer.'

The boy that I once was, Mr. Bradbury, always meant to write to Harry S Truman. Through a curious circumstance, I fell in love with Harry when I was six years old. He was (and is) a hero of mine. I never did write that letter, and feel the regret of my failure to do so, even to this very day. The boy that I still am has no intention of repeating that particular 'sin' of omission. As much as I rue that failure, I know I'd regret this one more deeply, for you have touched me more deeply.

The story I write will be for my daughter, so that she will meet some people she can never meet any other way. It will also be written for myself, for the sheer joy of casting fear and doubt and caution to the four winds. But it will be written, page upon page, with you in mind. The town in and around which my characters reside, I am calling 'Greening, Michigan.' Green Town has already been taken.

Thank you, Mr. Bradbury, for the wonderful bottle of wine you have given me. I've never tasted another near so sweet, or fine, or mellow. I try to find an appropriate gift to give in return. All I have to offer is this small bouquet of dandelions. It seems not nearly enough, and yet I know that it is.

Yours with Affection and Esteem,

Mark S. Pelletier (Markus Pell)

Very well said! You are among others who feel the same way about Ray's stories, they are indeed fine wine set aside for sipping when things are not going well, its too cold outside, or in my case too hot. He should Live Forever! And he does, in any library in the world.

Ol' Markus,

I took the liberty of sharing your open letter to Ray with him. He said, "Thank You and Bless You."

Thank you, Mr. Tarpinian. Thank you for your thoughtfulness. And a special thank you to Mr. Bradbury for blessing me, again.

Yours Sincerely,

Mark

Mark, you are more than welcome. Sometimes, it is nice to know that your words are read and appreciated.

John