Free The Bradbury Chronicles by Sam Weller

imaginative, far-distant future, packed such a tremendous punch in the little world of Ray Bradbury.
    The adventures of William “Buck” Rogers began appearing in the daily newspapers in October 1929, and Ray began collecting the comic strip religiously, almost madly, cutting it from the newspaper. He didn’t miss a single edition. Created by writer Phil Nolan and drawn by Dick Calkins, the Buck Rogers space opera was the first science fiction comic strip. Its cartoon panels, replete with images of hovercrafts, rocket guns, paralysis rays, and jumping belts that lifted people high into the clouds, awed Ray, a boy born during the era that bridged the dusk of Victorian times and the dawn of the rocket age. “In 1929, our thinking was so primitive we could scarcely imagine the years before a machine capable of footprinting moon dust would be invented. And even that prediction was snorted at, declared impossible by ninety-nine percent of the people. And Buck Rogers offered us more: a trip to the asteroids, a journey to Venus, Mercury, and, yes, Jupiter itself.... And in 1929, think of it! Why good grief, Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins hadn’t even been born yet!” said Ray Bradbury.
    While Ray was enamored with his newfound passion, America was hit by the Depression. The Bradbury family, already struggling, was pushed to the edge; Ray’s father, Leo, clung to his job with the Bureau of Power and Light. Ray Bradbury never really understood the state of his own family, much less that of the country, and unlike many people who lived through the Depression, Ray never developed the habit of worrying about money.
    Consumed by a Buck Rogers fever, Ray talked incessantly about his great love for Buck, Wilma Deering, the Rocket Rangers, Dr. Huer, Killer Kane, and the wicked and beautiful Queen Ardala. Ray’s schoolmates teased him mercilessly for his “childish” interests. Ray remembered the children’s hurtful words, “‘Why are you collecting Buck Rogers ?’” they prodded. “‘There aren’t going to be any rocket ships. We aren’t ever going to land on Mars or the moon.’” Wounded, the sensitive boy rushed home from school one afternoon, tore into the house, and began, one by one, tearing up and tossing out his entire collection of comic strips. He believed his friends—it was all kids’ stuff, the ray guns and the rocket ships. “My Buck Rogers collection!” Ray remembered. “[It was] like giving away my head, my heart, my soul, and half a lung. I walked wounded for a year after that. I grieved and I cursed myself for having so dumbly tossed aside what was, in essence, the greatest love of my life. Imagination. Romance. Intuition. Love.”
    Not long after he abandoned Buck Rogers, Ray realized his mistake. Never mind the other kids in their haste to grow up, he thought vehemently. Forget the so-called “friends” and their premature quest for adulthood. One day, he knew, they would pine for their childhood. He learned this harsh lesson at a young age and it remained with him throughout the rest of his life. He never lost touch with his inner child, and became the quintessential man-child, a poster boy for the Peter Pan syndrome.
    It was an important turning point for young Ray. It was also the launch of a healthy, sizable ego; he would believe in himself, his passions, and his ideas no matter what others said. Ray returned to Buck Rogers and stayed with him for the rest of his life. Tearing up the comic strips had taught him a crucial lesson: Never abandon one’s dreams and loves.
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    D URING R AY’S early Buck Rogers period, he began a weekly ritual of visiting the public library with his older brother, Skip, a sacred Monday-night event for the two boys. The Carnegie Library, built in 1903, was a stately granite building, located downtown on the corner of Washington and State streets. It was a quarter mile