It's my dad's fault. I'd been on the wagon for YEARS. Had slipped just a little a couple of times, had even tried to jump off, but I managed to stay on. Now, because of him ... I'm writing again. He asked me multiple times to read "Dandelion Wine" by Ray Bradbury and, after he offered to purchase it for me, I decided it was important enough to him that I would do it. So, I purchased the audiobook so I could listen at work. It's a beautiful, beautiful book, beautifully written, the whole thing like a prose poem. It wasn't enough. I just started it today and, before he'd gotten out of the introduction, I had to purchase the Kindle edition so I could highlight stuff that was already getting to me. Like this. People who remembered his hometown chastised him for not mentioning how ugly and depressing it was, especially the harbor, coal docks and rail-yards. His response? I had noticed them and, genetic enchanter that I was, was fascinate