Читать книгу Dandelion Wine - Рэй Брэдбери, Ray Bradbury, Ray Bradbury Philip K. Dick Isaac Asimov - Страница 16

Grandfather smiled in his sleep.

Feeling the smile and wondering why it was there, he awoke. He lay quietly listening, and the smile was explained.

For he heard a sound which was far more important than birds or the rustle of new leaves. Once each year he woke this way and lay waiting for the sound which meant that summer had officially begun. And it began on a morning such as this when a boarder, a nephew, a cousin, a son or a grandson came out on the lawn below and moved in consecutively smaller quadrangles north and east and south and west with a clatter of rotating metal through the sweet summer grass. Clover blossoms, the few unharvested dandelion fires, ants, sticks, pebbles, remnants of last year’s July Fourth squibs and punks, but predominantly clear green, a fount leaped up from the chattering mower. A cool soft fount; Grandfather imagined it tickling his legs, spraying his warm face, filling his nostrils with the timeless scent of a new season begun, with the promise that, yes, we’ll all live another twelve months.

God bless the lawn mower, he thought. Who was the fool who made January first New Year’s Day? No, they should set a man to watch the grasses across a million Illinois, Ohio, and Iowa lawns, and on that morning when it was long enough for cutting, instead of ratchets and horns and yelling, there should be a great swelling symphony of lawn mowers reaping fresh grass upon the prairie lands. Instead of confetti and serpentine, people should throw grass spray at each other on the one day each year that really represents the Beginning!

He snorted at his own lengthy discussion of the affair, went to the window and leaned out into the mellow sunshine, and sure enough, there was a boarder, a young newspaperman named Forrester, just finishing a row.

‘Morning, Mr Spaulding!’

‘Give ’em hell, Bill!’ cried Grandpa heartily, and was soon downstairs eating Grandma’s breakfast, with the bay window open so the rattling buzz of the lawn mower lolled about his eating.

‘It gives you confidence,’ Grandpa said. ‘That lawn mower. Listen to it!’

‘Won’t be using the lawn mower much longer.’ Grandma set down a stack of wheat cakes. ‘They got a new kind of grass Bill Forrester’s putting in this morning, never needs cutting. Don’t know what they call it, but it just grows so long and no longer.’

Grandpa stared at the woman. ‘You’re finding a poor way to joke with me.’

‘Go look for yourself. Land’s sake,’ said Grandma, ‘it was Bill Forrester’s idea. The new grass is waiting in little flats by the side of the house. You just dig small holes here and there and put the new grass in spots. By the end of the year the new grass kills off the old, and you sell your lawn mower.’

Grandpa was up from his chair, through the hall, and out the front door in ten seconds.

Bill Forrester left his machine and came over, smiling, squinting in the sun. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Bought the grass yesterday. Thought, while I’m on vacation I’d just plant it for you.’

‘Why wasn’t I consulted about this? It’s my lawn!’ cried Grandfather.

‘Thought you’d appreciate it, Mr Spaulding.’

‘Well, I don’t think I do appreciate it. Let’s see this confounded grass of yours.’

They stood by the little square pads of new grass. Grandpa toed at it with one end of his shoe suspiciously. ‘Looks like plain old grass to me. You sure some horse trader didn’t catch you early in the morning when you weren’t fully awake?’

‘I’ve seen the stuff growing in California. Only so high and no higher. If it survives our climate it’ll save us getting out here next year, once a week, to keep the darned stuff trimmed.’

‘That’s the trouble with your generation,’ said Grandpa. ‘Bill, I’m ashamed of you, you a newspaperman. All the things in life that were put here to savor, you eliminate. Save time, save work, you say.’ He nudged the grass trays disrespectfully. ‘Bill, when you’re my age, you’ll find out it’s the little savors and little things that count more than big ones. A walk on a spring morning is better than an eighty-mile ride in a hopped-up car, you know why? Because it’s full of flavors, full of a lot of things growing. You’ve time to seek and find. I know – you’re after the broad effect now, and I suppose that’s fit and proper. But for a young man working on a newspaper, you got to look for grapes as well as watermelons. You greatly admire skeletons and I like fingerprints; well and good. Right now such things are bothersome to you, and I wonder if it isn’t because you’ve never learned to use them. If you had your way you’d pass a law to abolish all the little jobs, the little things. But then you’d leave yourselves nothing to do between the big jobs and you’d have a devil of a time thinking up things to do so you wouldn’t go crazy. Instead of that, why not let nature show you a few things? Cutting grass and pulling weeds can be a way of life, son.’

Bill Forrester was smiling quietly at him.

‘I know,’ said Grandpa, ‘I talk too much.’

‘There’s no one I’d rather hear.’

‘Lecture continued, then. Lilacs on a bush are better than orchids. And dandelions and devil grass are better! Why? Because they bend you over and turn you away from all the people and the town for a little while and sweat you and get you down where you remember you got a nose again. And when you’re all to yourself that way, you’re really yourself for a little while; you get to thinking things through, alone. Gardening is the handiest excuse for being a philosopher. Nobody guesses, nobody accuses, nobody knows, but there you are, Plato in the peonies, Socrates force-growing his own hemlock. A man toting a sack of blood manure across his lawn is kin to Atlas letting the world spin easy on his shoulder. As Samuel Spaulding, Esquire, once said, ‘Dig in the earth, delve in the soul.’ Spin those mower blades, Bill, and walk in the spray of the Fountain of Youth. End of lecture. Besides, a mess of dandelion greens is good eating once in a while.’

‘How many years since you had dandelion greens for supper, sir?’

‘We won’t go into that!’

Bill kicked one of the grass flats slightly and nodded. ‘About this grass now. I didn’t finish telling. It grows so close it’s guaranteed to kill off clover and dandelions —’

‘Great God in heaven! That means no dandelion wine next year! That means no bees crossing our lot! You’re out of your mind, son! Look here, how much did all this cost you?’

‘A dollar a flat. I bought ten flats as a surprise.’

Grandpa reached into his pocket, took out the old deep-mouthed purse, unclasped the silver clasp, and removed from it three five-dollar bills. ‘Bill, you’ve just made a great profit of five dollars on this transaction. I want you to deliver this load of unromantic grass into the ravine, the garbage dump – anywhere – but I ask you in a civil and humble voice not to plant it in my yard. Your motives are above reproach, but my motives, I feel, because I’m approaching my tenderest years, must be considered first.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Bill pocketed the bills reluctantly.

‘Bill, you just plant this new grass some other year. The day after I die, Bill, you’re free to tear up the whole damn lawn. Think you can wait another five years or so for an old orator to kick off?’

‘I know darn well I can wait,’ Bill said.

‘There’s a thing about the lawn mower I can’t even tell you, but to me it’s the most beautiful sound in the world, the freshest sound of the season, the sound of summer, and I’d miss it fearfully if it wasn’t there, and I’d miss the smell of cut grass.’

Bill bent to pick up a flat. ‘Here I go to the ravine.’

‘You’re a good, understanding young man, and will make a brilliant and sensitive reporter,’ said Grandfather, helping him. ‘This I predict!’

The morning passed, noon came on, Grandpa retired after lunch, read a little Whittier, and slept well on through the day. When he awoke at three the sun was streaming through the windows, bright and fresh. He lay in bed and was startled to hear the old, the familiar, the memorable sound.

‘Why,’ he said, ‘someone’s using the lawn mower! But the lawn was just cut this morning!’

He listened again. And yes, there it was, the endless droning chatter up and down, up and down.

He leaned out the window and gaped. ‘Why, it’s Bill. Bill Forrester, you there! Has the sun got you? You’re cutting the lawn again!’

Bill looked up, smiled a white smile, and waved. ‘I know! I think I missed a few spots!’

And while Grandpa lay in bed for the next five minutes, smiling and at ease, Bill Forrester cut the lawn north, then west, then south, and finally, in a great green spraying fountain, toward the east.