I grew up in the 1960s. We were the last generation who could run loose in the neighborhood from Saturday morning until dinner time. Our summers were aimless affairs, devoid of any parental organization, as long as we showed up for school in September. But what does all of this have to do with Ray Bradbury?
Bradbury is famous, of course, for his lyrical, sepia-toned depictions of idyllic Midwestern childhoods, especially in Something Wicked This Way Comes, and Dandelion Wine. But if you are actually experiencing an idyllic Midwestern childhood, then this sort of thing is really boring. I wanted to read about spaceships and galactic empires. I devoured Asimov, and Clarke, and Heinlein. I had no use for Ray Bradbury and his depictions of kids whose lives seemed so similar to my own.
Now that I am firmly entrenched in the very middle of middle age, I can appreciate Bradbury's nostalgic point of view. I recently read both Dandelion Wine and Something Wicked This Way Comes and enjoyed them both. But I would recommend that everyone put off reading Ray Bradbury until they reach the age of reason, which I'll take to be about 40 years old, or maybe 50.