There is nothing more magical than a childhood summer. For Douglas Spaulding, that is precisely the case, and he can sense there is something else in the air when the summer of 1928 commences. He will undergo an unprecedented journey of shocking maturity as things in Green Town pick up, dance about, and then flicker away – all in the essence of summer.

Written by Ray Bradbury and published in 1957 as a “childhood memoir,” this piece of literature is a masterpiece that gets better with age – like a good wine, you could say. Dandelion Wine is a rich text filled with magnificent emotions that go beyond its sunny complexion. According to Time, “Bradbury is an authentic original,” wholeheartedly capturing the spirit of Douglas Spaulding’s innocent soul.

This novel does not tackle life with a chip on its shoulder, it embraces it with a warm hug. Steaming, golden summer has been poured into these pages, and amongst seemingly disconnected events of misery, profound thought, and something else, one comes to terms with why. What is this leading to? Yes, yes, the Green Machine and our Colonel Freeleigh and dear, dear Helen Loomis and Great-Grandma still up at her spirits shingling that Spaulding roof, but then it hits you. Unlike anything else, Bradbury has so directly and credibly touched you. He gives you a young child with bright, wide eyes cast up at the skies because they are not burned yet. You watch a wonderful, admirably childish child transition into an all-too early manhood. And this happens through material events that are yet immaterial.

Dandelion Wine is unforgettably universal. Bradbury touches the hearts of those who still dream and hope and believe, despite our forever aging hands and minds. He fingers the delicacy of life and distills it, straining it to a purely concentrated concoction, and finally attains summer at its sweetest. He hands this wine to us, and we must drink up.