Ray Bradbury lived for much of his life in a lovely little home in the Cheviot Hills area of Los Angeles, not far from where I grew up. The address was never much of a secret and when I was about twelve, a friend of mine and I walked over to it, then walked back and forth past it a few times. I guess we were hoping to spot him coming in or out and then we'd wave to him and he'd talk to us and invite us in and give us autographed books or…well, I'm not sure what we were hoping would happen. We would have been happy just to get a glimpse of him. We settled for the "closeness" of knowing we were walking past his home.
Later, I got to know him. A few times when he was at comic or science-fiction conventions, I'd offer to save him the cab fare and drive him home. Twice…maybe three times…he invited me in and we talked for a while. So there was something a bit magical to me about that home.
Last May, his family put it on the market with an asking price of $1.5 million. For that neighborhood, that was reasonable so I'm guessing it went for something around that figure. And late last week, they began tearing it down to build something new.
I just read some online messages that when they quit the demolition work on Friday, the house was without a roof. And now it's raining in Los Angeles…
Those of you who are familiar with Ray's story "There Will Come Soft Rains" will appreciate the imagery.