Elizabeth Bradley Fiction - Bits & Bytes

Blueberries, Anyone?

2010-05-27T13:10:00.000-07:00

We have a blueberry farm out here in Temecula, not far from the house. We met my son, his wife and their two boys, my grandson’s Ben and Luke one lovely Sunday afternoon. Ben’s three, and Luke’s fourteen months. We had a great time picking blueberries, and there was a tractor which suited the boy’s fine. One of Ben’s first words was “tractor.” I made blueberry coffee cake with some of our blueberries and it was a hit. A good time was had by all.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Cancer Schmancer!

2010-05-25T14:20:00.000-07:00

Bonnie says, Cancer Schmancer! So what if I don't have my fluffy hair anymore, so what if I have a melanoma on my eyelid, so what! I still feel good, I still play with my toys, I still LOVE FOOD!

I don't know how long we'll have Bonnie but we're enjoying every minute we have left. I am on the mend. I will soon be visiting your blogs, (I know I threatened this before) but this time I really will be visiting you guys.

When A Girl's Sick...

2010-04-12T12:00:00.002-07:00

...she just don't feel good. (An old saying of my dad's, but of course he said "feller".) We all know that a picture's worth a thousand words, so I put up a picture of what got me, C. Difficile, nasty, nasty business.

Did you know that doctors can make you sicker than you were when you first went in to see them? Well, they can. It happened to me. At first everybody thought I was screaming in pain because of a tooth. Dentist visits ensued. Nope, not the problem. It was a massive sinus infection. Weeks later, the painful sinus infection was finally knocked back, but the third antibiotic turned out to be trouble. It killed all my good bacteria, so a nasty super bug could take hold. Lucky me.

I won't go into details. Suffice it to say, I'm intimately involved with all three toilets in my house. We might buy stock in Charmin, Tucks, and Clorox, (going thru toilet paper and bleach wipes like crazy).

Bonnie, on the other hand, thinks she's a puppy again. She's running around with a missing toe and paw pad, as if she doesn't miss them at all. Today is her oncologist appointment, they need to determine if she has to go on chemo or not. The surgery was a huge success, they got all the tumor out! Yay!

So, here I am, trying to act like a dog. Dog's have terrific attitudes. They don't let nasty melanoma's get the best of them, no way Jose. It's hard to keep a good dog down. Bonnie is a very, very good dog, everyone that meets her falls madly in love (a true story). I want to be like her when I grow up, (after all she is in her 70's and she's now running around much like the day I picked her up from the breeder when she was only 8 weeks old.

Don't worry, dear friends, I'll be back on my feet, (and off the throne), in no time, blogging and visiting you all. Thanks for your concern and kind thoughts, it means alot. Hopefully I will not be one of the casualties that end up losing their colon from this ugly bug that resembles Good N'Plenty Candies, (at least in the illustrations.) I bet they have a face. Shudder. Ick. Yuck.

What the Heck's Going On With This Here Blog?

2010-03-26T16:46:00.001-07:00

Okay, without getting into the gory details, I was sick. And when a girl's sick she just doesn't feel good. (It wasn't my teeth but a nasty bacterial infection.) But, through magic of pharmaceuticals I'm back! Bright eyed and bushy tailed.

My little dog Bonnie, on the other hand, isn't fairing so well. Her tail ain't wagging :-(

To make a long story (and ordeal) very short, my little cairn terrier has an aggressive form of melanoma, and after having her toes amputated is not doing all that well. So I am busy nursing her. I pray that she won't have to have chemotherapy, but it's looking as if we'll have to go that route.

Give me a week or so to get my act together and I will be back up and running. Thanks for all the lovely letters and your kind thoughts, I am not all that bad off. Nothing life threatening I promise.

Check out pic of Bonnie in better days, and Bonnie, like her mama a little older, grayer, and less spry.

OUCH

2010-02-19T12:29:00.001-08:00

Why I am MIA. Hope to see ya soon.

Happy Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T12:31:00.000-08:00

Have a great day!

They Say Zed

2010-02-13T01:28:00.000-08:00

Both sets of my grandparents were born in Canada. We’ve got Irish and French, French and Irish, and Huron (Americans say Indian, Canadians say First Nations), and God only knows what blood flowing though our veins, my big brother and me and my little sister. Mom was born in Saskatchewan, and my dad’s parents, (residents of historic Amherstberg, Ontario), just happened to be visiting Detroit, Michigan the day he was born. So, for all intents and purposes, I’m infused with Canadianess, although I’m American born and bred.

Man, they really did a terrific job with the opening night of those Olympics up in beautiful Vancouver British Columbia! I’m not about to launch into some blow-by-blow description. But, right out of the chute, when I heard a deep timbered voice from way on high begin to speak I looked at The Husband and I said, “Hey that’s Donald Sutherland. Cool, he’s a perfect choice.”

I’ll cut right to the chase, that little dude flying around over the surreal prairie like Peter Pan on crack was amazing! And with Joni Mitchell’s later version of Both Sides Now playing to boot. I swooned. Thank God I was in a recliner!

As if that wasn’t enough, I thought I had died on the spot and had been instantly transported straight up to heaven while listening to KD Lang’s version of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. Who sings like that? Holy crap. She is beyond fantastic. I am in awe, I don’t care if she forgot to wear shoes again, or not.

I won’t start in on how many talented individuals hail from Canada. HELLO! Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, Alice Munro, Neil Young, Margaret Atwood, Mike Myers! Anyway, I’ll save all that for another time. This is meant to be a short post and I could go on all night long because so many truly talented people are Canadians.

I have all these memories and impressions and feelings about Canada all bottled up inside me. One of these days I’ll do something with all that. I really will. Until then, all I can say is: sit back and enjoy the show (The Olympics). And if you get the chance, do yourself a favor and get your butt to Canada.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Make My Day, Please

2010-02-11T12:58:00.000-08:00

My daughter is a fashion designer. She graduated from FIDM and now works for a stylist in L.A., learning the ropes and working on TV commercials (Nike, Pizza, Crackers, Laundry Detergent, you get the picture) and rock videos (most recently Zooey Deschanel's band!) Please follow this link and vote for her entry in the Lifetime Project Runway red dress contest. The dress she designed is gorgeous, and I'm not just saying that because I'm her mother.

Click Here ~~ Alexis Please!!! When you get here up in the left hand corner is a box with X1, click until it is X 64, the pen will draw the dress quickly. Thanks all!

See Alexis in photo above, with a rap star Christmas Tree, Zooey Deschanel, a pair of Christian Louboutin shoes I set on the pool table and snapped a pic of, (she was dressing the winner of Britain's version of American Idol and brought them home the night before the photo shoot, sorry, I downloaded the pic and it was sideways and I'm too daft to fix it.) And Heidi Klum and Tim Gunn, (I adore Tim!)

By the way, thank you Kathryn in Ohio, my Internet pal, for bringing the contest to my attention! Love you, Kathryn!

Stuff I Love

2010-02-09T20:27:00.000-08:00

In honor of upcoming Valentine's Day I am posting pictures of random stuff I love.

My granddaughter at a Super Bowl Party, way out in Colorado where she lives now :-(

Oliver, one of our four dogs, as a puppy.

Gluten-free double-chocolate cupcakes.

Wine, this pinot is affordable and delicious.

Suicide

2010-02-08T12:23:00.000-08:00

Someone close to me just lost a friend. This friend hung himself during a party. Can you imagine? His dad found him.

I have a character that's somewhat obsessed with suicide and I have to decide if I am going to try to stop her when and if the time comes.

Did you know that the number one place people choose to end their own lives is The Golden Gate Bridge? The number two place is The Aokigahara Forest in Japan, a very spooky place that has something to do with demons, or so I've heard.

Below are the lyrics to the theme song from M*A*S*H. Robert Altman's son Mike Altman wrote the lyrics. His dad only made $70,000 for directing the movie, but Mike earned upwards of a million bucks from this song. Check out Lady and Bird's rendition, it's very good.

"Suicide is Painless" by Johnny Mandel) - M*A*S*H Lyrics

Through early morning fog I see
visions of the things to be
the pains that are withheld for me
I realize and I can see...

[chorus]:

That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
and I can take or leave it if I please.

I try to find a way to make
all our little joys relate
without that ever-present hate
but now I know that it's too late, and...

[Chorus]

The game of life is hard to play
I'm gonna lose it anyway
The losing card I'll someday lay
so this is all I have to say.

[Chorus]

The only way to win is cheat
And lay it down before I'm beat
and to another give my seat
for that's the only painless feat.

[Chorus]

The sword of time will pierce our skins
It doesn't hurt when it begins
But as it works its way on in
The pain grows stronger...watch it grin, but...

[Chorus]

A brave man once requested me
to answer questions that are key
'is it to be or not to be'
and I replied 'oh why ask me?'

'Cause suicide is painless
it brings on many changes
and I can take or leave it if I please.
...and you can do the same thing if you choose.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

On the Right Track

2010-02-04T11:52:00.000-08:00

There are days when I could swear I hear strings playing in the background as if some heavenly orchestra in the sky is keeping time with my life. I bask in the harmoniousness of it all.

But then, there are those days where there is no music. Dead silence. Wait, that’s just not true, there are the voices, the nagging voices. These voices have been around for a very long time. Almost from the beginning. I remember hearing their dire warnings and harsh reprimands as a very small child. And, just when I think the harassing choir is at last dead and buried, they are somehow mysteriously resurrected. I won’t bore you with specifics, but in a nutshell, they say, “Who do you think you are?”

It’s important to go back at them with all I’ve got, I’ve discovered. It’s hopeless to pussyfoot around with these incidious influences, negotiation always proves futile. Direct confrontation is the only way to drive them away. “I am ME!” I shout, (usually telepathically because I don’t want to scare the real people, or the dogs), “Keep your negativity to yourself. Buzz off. I am worthy. I am on the right track. I am over a half a century old now, in case you haven’t noticed. I’ve earned the right to strangle you all dead. Go away, for once and for all. Don’t you know? You’re useless to me now? I’ve decided to be wise. Wise people don’t listen to the likes of you. Goodbye cruel voices. If you ever want to interact with me again you’d better turn into music.”

(Photo above: Tres Grandchildren playing the piano, for Grizzy.)

So, just after I wrote this earlier, I read my horoscope. A bit of serendipity, perhaps?

Powered by Astrocenter.com
February 4, 2010
Daily Virgo horoscope:

Things should be going extremely well for you in general today, dear Virgo, so don't miss this opportunity to pursue your dreams in every sense of the word. Do things with passion, and don't hold back. Remember that your own mind and will are the only things stopping you from getting to where you want to be. There is a great deal of magnetic power at your disposal today, so enlist others to help you along the way.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

A Very Short Post

2010-02-02T12:21:00.000-08:00

Sometimes Tuesday feels like Monday. This is one of those Tuesdays. Today, an ordinary cup of coffee feels like a reward. I got so much work done yesterday but I didn’t tend to certain paperwork. So that neglected paperwork is waiting. A menacing stack. To be honest, two menacing stacks. So this is a short post. A very short post.

It’s not just the paperwork. My dogs are acting crazy lately. They tear up the grass, they bark like maniacs. A big loud dog just moved in behind us. We share about twenty feet of fence line with the top of the hill of a neighboring yard and it was bad enough when the little Jack Russell terrier used to traverse the hill and bark at my dogs, but now we have the big dog too, and it’s practically deafening when they all launch into a mass tirade. I’m thinking of buying shock collars, nothing else works!

I bought this ultrasonic gadget that goes off when any dog within a certain distance barks, but this neighborhood has so many dogs that goes off all the time and it doesn’t end up teaching my dogs a thing. Oliver cowers pathetically when the device is on, and he won’t go outside at all, the sound hurts his sensitive ears so bad. And Duncan, my oldest cairn terrier, is deaf and he can’t hear it so he barks anyway which hurts Oliver and Bonnie and Lita’s ears. (Oliver and Lita belong to my two daughters but I am raising them for the time being.) I never thought I’d have four dogs. Lita is a three pound Chihuahua, she cannot wear a shock collar, but Lordy does she have a diabolical bark, it sounds like a demon screaming straight outa hell!

There are safe shock collars. I looked it up. Eighty-three bucks buys you a collar that only goes off if the wearer is barking, it detects not only sound but vibration too. I don’t know. The jury’s out. I worry about putting a shock collar on Duncan, he’s so senile it just might piss him off and he’ll keep barking just to spite the collar. (I guess it turns off after so many shocks, they’ve factored in stubborn animals.)

We’ll see, in the meantime I am chasing them away from the fence with a broom.

I need another cup of Joe.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Happiness 101

2010-01-30T12:13:00.000-08:00

I won the Happy Award again! Ann Spollen saw fit to choose me this time. She's an incredible writer, pop over to her blog and pre-order her upcoming novel "Light Beneath Ferns". Her wonderful novel, "The Shape of Water" is available now.

I'm not going to list 10 things that make me happy again, but I will write about my visit yesterday with my grandson Ethan, as promised in a previous post.

Ethan is brain-injured. For the lengthly explanation click on my post of a couple of days ago, titled, Heartache 101.

I am HAPPY to report Ethan's congestion is improving. He is babbling, and when his "other grandma" makes certain sounds he tries to mimic them. He listens intently to Sesame Street, especially Elmo, and when Elmo sings with Nora Jones he gets very quiet and grins. (I'm going to buy him a Nora Jones CD). He knew I was coming and got very excited. If you mention "school" he starts laughing and expects to go "be with the kids". His teacher, Miss Monica, is an angel on earth and Ethan is madly in love with her. She was trained to work with blind kids and the family's happy that he's with her, at least until he has to move on to kindergarten.

I'll share something with you: some find this weird, but they don't get it. Before all this happened to Ethan, when he was learning to talk, he spent quite a bit of time with my niece's children, and they call me Aunt Lizzy. This was right around the time when we were trying to get him to say Grandma, so he started calling me Iz, or Izzy, and then Izzy became Grizzy. So, I will always be Grizzy to Ethan, and consequently, to all my grandchildren. I love the name Grizzy and feel privileged to be the only one that I know of! Thanks to Ethan.

Above is the award, (thanks Anne), a picture of the little guy with his "other grandma", and below is a video of Ethan's Mama giving him a bath! Have a terrific weekend everybody!!!

Hey Neighbor!

2010-01-28T13:08:00.000-08:00

Join me in my neck of the woods for a spell.

Pretend I’m a Mr. Rogers clone.

The Husband woke up for a “very early” business call, stepped out on the balcony off his office this morning, and immediately spotted a hot air balloon off in the distance. He was too busy trying to sound brilliant while half-awake to bother locating a camera. So the photo above is a publicity shot of one of the many hot air balloons that often fly above Temecula. Judging by the hills and mountains, we live a tad Northwest of where this particular balloon is.

We fully intend to go up in one of these things this Spring. Well, I’m afraid of heights, and I say I want to go up now, when it’s all very abstract and fun sounding, but we’ll see if I ever really do.

The skies around here have been particularly gorgeous lately.

Last night I decided to jazz up some leftover mashed potatoes. I chopped up a mess of four kinds of peppers, garlic, and onions. Lightly wiped a casserole dish with a bit of extra-virgin olive oil, slammed the spuds in evenly, sprinkled generously with a five cheese blend, (I used the Mexican variety but any would do), and topped with the pepper mixture. Popped in a preheated, 400 oven and took it out when it was all bubbly and slightly brownish in spots. Lordy mercy, were they good! This is the kind of side dish that can really make a mundane meal sing. My pork chops were very jealous of all the attention the taters got. I roasted some squash as well, coated with a bit of aforementioned ever-versatile olive oil and a little fresh rosemary, pepper, and sea salt.

I've been writing like a maniac. When I’m not working on this project, I’m thinking about this project. I dream up solutions and wake up in the middle of the night and I have to go jot down these brilliant ideas. Thank you muse, but could you whisper in my ear when I’m awake!

Anyhow, that’s all I got for today. Better get back to work.

What’s happening in your neighborhood, anything worth mentioning?

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Heartache 101

2010-01-26T09:33:00.000-08:00

Meet Ethan Conner, my first grandson. Pictured in his wheelchair (I'm holding his hands), as a baby, and in his Halloween pirate costume.

At two years of age Ethan had a seizure and stopped breathing in his daddy's arms. He was clinically dead for several minutes. They got him breathing again in the ambulance. They lost him once more at Children's Hospital but brought him back. He was in a coma. I was there when they told his parents he would be a vegetable if he ever woke up. The brain damage was too severe.

I am doing my best to make a rather involved and tragic long story short.

Ethan had been misdiagnosed. After making so much progress he had another seizure after he had been home for a few months. He was rushed to a different Children’s Hospital. This time they got it right. Funny, this new group of doctors knew what the problem was straight away. The ventricles of his heart weren’t working, so they installed a defibrillator. Which was akin to closing the barn door after the cows had gotten out. The poor little guy had suffered even more brain damage. All the progress he had made was virtually erased. When it comes to writing about my grandson and what happened to him I am reduced to a puddle of emotion. It’s beyond difficult, trying to express the heartache of watching a child you love go through so much pain and agony. Not to mention the suffering of his mom and dad, and extended family members.

He can’t sit up on his own. He has a permanent feeding tube and has to wear diapers. He’s going to turn five in April. He loves to listen to Curious George and Sesame Street, as his vision is impaired. They really can’t determine just what he can and can’t see. Therapy has been cut off because of the budget cuts in California. He does go to school five days a week.

He has problems with extreme pain in his legs due to atrophy, and mucus is a constant problem.

But he’s here. With us. Now.

I don't suppose it's surprising that I’m fed up with shallow people, people that complain all the time about trivial matters, people that are self-centered and petty. When I'm exposed to such people I can’t help but think about Ethan’s mother and his maternal grandparents. You see, my son, and Ethan’s mother had a fling, they were together a very short while. In fact, she didn’t know she was pregnant. Seemed she was on some sort of experimental birth control and it took the doctor’s several months to figure out why she was so sick, that she was actually growing a human being inside her. My son didn’t find out until she was eight months along. He offered to marry her, but she didn’t want to get married. She didn’t want him to have much to do with the process at all. Later on, after Ethan was born and a few months old, she eventually consented to let him take the baby at regular intervals. I think it dawned on her that it wasn’t going to be so easy to raise a child on her own.

The reason I have come to admire Ethan’s mother and her parents (until all this happened to Ethan I didn’t know them at all) is because I have never met such selfless, wonderful people before. Taking care of Ethan is a twenty-four hour a day job. And the entire family accomplishes this without protest, with love in their hearts. As he gets older it becomes more difficult to manage his needs and they never complain.

I’m driving up to see him this Friday. They live about seventy miles away. I’ll post a new picture and you’ll be able so see how big he is now. Their whole family is made up of super-sized people, on both sides, so he’s getting huge! I can't even pick him up and he doesn't fit on my lap.

Until my late forties, tragedy had never really found me. Then all hell broke loose. I had to take care of my father as he deteriorated from heart disease and Alzheimer’s. My stepmother was a juvenile diabetic with myriads of health problems, and she could no longer drive so I had to take her numerous doctor appointments several times a month. As her illness progressed, her own kids were conveniently MIA, so I had to take care of her, and she eventually died in my guest room of breast cancer. I was holding one of her frail hands and Dad was holding the other, when she went. It was not a pretty death. Then came Ethan’s calamity. Dad died a little over a year ago, and that was not a pretty death either.

I have become intimately acquainted with sorrow and loss—and it’s changed me immensely. For the better. I wake up and I am happy to be here. I strive to see the beauty around me. There is no time for whining. I strive to be like Ethan’s family when I grow up.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Success and Suckiness

2010-01-25T13:13:00.000-08:00

I bought some fresh basil and some buffalo mozzarella and some pretty red tomatoes at the Farmer's Market. I thought of making a salad last night, but longed for something warm and substantial. I thought I might find some nice white fish. But they didn't have any suitable fish at the market. So, I settled for chicken. I decided to improvise and make chicken paillards with a garlic lemon sauce. I would serve the paillards over basil infused creamy asiago polenta and top them off with roasted tomatoes, improvising all the way. And what a success the dinner was. I should come up with a name for this dish. (I made The Son put down his knife and fork so I could snap a pic of his plate, so that's the real deal pictured.) The Husband, and my youngest son and daughter were singing my praises. Our lovely meal was worth getting burnt in the eye. I was busy sauteing the chicken in olive oil and a bit of butter when I heard a PoP, but didn't get out of the way quick enough, and got struck in the eye. Ouch! I immediately ran over to the sink and doused my eyeball in cold water.

It's such a good feeling when we put out a lot of effort and see that effort pay off. It's not so good when we work our butt off, and things don't pan out. Ah, the tough get tougher, (or so they say), and if we practice stick-to-it-tiveness we will prevail. I try to teach my kids this. But, once in a while we attempt to accomplish something we really don't excel at. No matter how hard we try. There's a lesson in learning just where our abilities lie.

Everybody knows somebody that thinks they can sing but they can't. This particular delusion seems to be awfully common, after all the tone deaf are just that, tone deaf. And being a terrible singer is no big deal, if all you do is lock yourself in the car and try to keep up with Lady Ga Ga. Who ya gonna hurt? Lady Ga Ga can't hear you, and as long as you pipe down at traffic lights and spare the pedestrians in the crosswalk, you won't offend a soul.

On the other hand, if you behave like Ernesto, you will rupture innocent eardrums. Ernesto Ruiz worked for my father at his appliance store. I was working there too, setting up the kitchen design showroom, and after the store closed Ernesto would fire up one of the many stereos, (he favored Barry Manilow), grab the intercom microphone, and belt out Copa Cobana, or Mandy (God help us) at the top of his lungs. He sounded beyond pathetic. Ernesto truly believed that he had missed his true calling. (Ernesto's a family man now, owns a string of furniture stores. My brother told me this recently. I wonder if he makes his employees listen to him sing. And who's he singing with now, Michael Buble?)

I'm not in the least bit mechanical. And I'm terrible when it comes to understanding electronic anything. I can't program our complicated (they lie and say it's simple) remote for our cable, let alone operate the darn thing. Which my drives techno-savvy family bonkers. They expect that I should be able to record a movie, or fast forward through commercials on my own, and I just can't!

For some reason I can run my Mac just fine. Of course I've been working on Apple computers for twenty plus years, I guess if I couldn't operate one, that would make me quite inept.

We all have our long suits and our short suits. Name one thing you've got going for you, and one thing you wish you could do, but suck at. We'll all get to learn more about each other ;-)

Terrific

2010-01-23T21:05:00.000-08:00

Oh Mercy! A day of shopping on a glorious day! First, we stopped at the Apple store. The Husband is looking for a car charger for his I-phone, but of course I'm lusting after a new laptop and he's drooling over a system, (you know you're in trouble when you're looking at a system!) I grabbed him by the arm and got him out of there, just in time. Whew!

Williams Sonoma. What a store. You can spend 18 bucks on a jar of jam. I saw a double-sided omelette pan that caused me to have lust in my heart, but I got a grip, after all I've been rustling up omelettes with a regular non-stick pan forever--did I really need the double-sided one? Not really. I spotted one of those nifty silicone-coated paring knifes. I need that! Don't I? Not one of my paring knifes is coated in silicone, surely they're defective? What about the giant-sized electric paella pan? That could come in handy. The Husband grabbed me by the arm and got me out of there, just in time. Whew!

We were walking along and I said, "What a sky! I gotta take a picture of that." So, I took the picture. All last week we had rain, rain, rain, so I had to take the time to celebrate the mostly blue sky.

And do I have to say more than TJ Maxx? I am a bargain lover and man oh man does TJ Maxx give good bargain. My eyes were rolling back in my head.

On the whole it's been a lovely day. We came home and I made dinner and now we're going to watch a movie. This is one of those, this is what I did today blogs. Terrific is my word for the day. If you're in the mood to leave a comment, tell us what's terrific for you, right now.

My Surreal Tale

2010-01-22T16:22:00.000-08:00

According to the comments you all so kindly left on my previous post it looks as if we all agree, Anderson Cooper is a brave man. And the more I hear about him, it sounds as if that occurrence with the boy in Haiti wasn’t an isolated display of his heroic character.

After a lengthy conversation with a friend yesterday, I started thinking, what, (if not downright heroic, but certainly helpful act), have I ever performed for a complete stranger?

A peculiar incident came to mind. One afternoon I was driving my three-year old daughter and thirteen-year old son to Target, my son had just gotten out of school for the day. We pulled off the 57 Freeway in Orange County to get gas. My daughter was in her car seat and my son was sitting alongside, doing his best to keep her amused. I climbed out to pump the gas.

A pretty dark girl stood at the pump in front of me, next to a moped. A young boy (I’d venture to guess he was around six or seven) was standing next to her, wearing a backpack that looked way too heavy for his tiny shoulders. Well, her card wouldn’t work in the machine, and she told the boy they were out of money and she didn’t know what she was going to do. Just then a man walked over from the other side of the pump and offered to buy her some gas. “I couldn’t,” she said.

“Hey,” he said, “I’ve been in a jam before, Let me buy you some gas.”

I was pleased to see that there were still gentlemen in this world. I went about my business, but soon heard the girl call out, “Get your hands off me, you dirty bastard!”

I looked up to see the guy pawing at her, right there at the gas pump. Seemed he wanted a little something/something before he shelled out a few measly bucks! I hurried over and screamed at him, saying, “Let go of her—now!”

He launched a few choice words in my direction before kicking the moped over, which nearly struck the little boy. In a rage, he stomped it a few times before hopping in his oversized-brand-new-shiny-pick-up-truck and taking off like a bat outa hell.

I helped the girl right the moped, but it was obviously damaged. “I can’t ride it this way!” She cried. “Why me? Why is everything bad happening to me lately?”

The little boy threw his arms around her slender hips, and said, “Oh, Mama.”

She looked too young to be his mother. I’d mistakingly pegged them as brother and sister. “Look,” I said, watching my son hop out of my mini-van. “We can load the moped in the back of my van. And I'll drive you home.”

My son said, “Mom, I used the mobile phone to call 911, I gave them that man’s license plate number, they’re on they’re way over.”

“Damn it! No!” The girl cried. “You called the cops?”

The design firm I was working for at the time had seen fit to give me a mobile phone to use in emergency situations, (they were super-expensive to operate back then, and I might add the size of brick), but I hadn’t even given the phone a second thought, as the thing baffled me anyway. But my son had been clear-headed enough to use it, (bragging moment, he’s a micro-biologist now), and when confronted with the girl’s displeasure his hopeful face crumpled. “My son did the right thing,” I told her, “That maniac will have to pay for damaging your bike, and besides, he can’t run around accosting girls.”

“I don’t have a license,” she said. “They’re gonna bust me!”

I put my hand on her shoulder, she was so distraught the little boy was whimpering. “Calm down. They won’t ask to see your license.”

I told my son to go sit with his sister. A motorcycle cop drove up, dismounted, and asked what happened. The girl told her story. He looked at me then, asking, “And just who are you?” I told him that I'd been pumping gas nearby and witnessed how the guy manhandled her, and how he kicked the moped over and stomped on it.

“So, you’re telling me, he offered to buy her gas, and then he made advances?”

“Yes,” I said, adding, “And when she pushed him away he freaked out.”

“You two want me to believe that he did all that, right here at the gas pump? In front of everybody?”

“Everybody?” I said, “Not everybody. Nobody else was here, except us.”

“Who called 911?”

I pointed to the van. “My son did.”

He walked over to the van and peered inside. Then he walked over to the moped and looked at it. “Have you been drinking?” He asked the girl.

Were we on Candid Camera? I thought. Surely this couldn’t be happening? “Look,” I said, feeling more than a little out of sorts with the slow-witted husky cop by then, “Give her a break, she’s with her little boy in the middle of the day, all she needed was some gasoline.”

“Be quiet," he warned. I shut up.

The jerk leaned over the girl, and asked, “Were you propositioning that man?”

I just had to interfere. I flipped out, saying, “Pleeaassee! Are you insane! I told you, I was standing here the whole time. I told you exactly what I saw. That’s all that happened!”

So his partner pulled up, they went off and had a little pow-wow, and the girl turned to me and whispered, “Great. I’m going to jail.”

“You aren’t going to jail,” I muttered. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You wait. You’ll see.”

The cops strolled over and asked for the girl's license (I'd been wrong on that count) and she told them she'd forgotten it at home. I told the mean cop that I was going to load her moped in my van and drive her home. We had three hungry children to think about. I gave them both a piece of my mind, telling them that they should be off chasing the pervert, not harassing the girl. So, they took her information down, they took my information down, and off they went. They didn’t even offer to help load the moped. The experience was quite surreal.

We got in the car. I told her I was pulling into the McDonalds across the street because I had promised my kids a snack. I ordered three Happy meals and the kids ate while I drove her home. “So,” I said, “We’ll see if they catch that guy, and he’ll have to pay to have your moped fixed. I hope he goes to jail.”

She replied, in a deadpan voice, “Not gonna happen. I gave them fake information. And that’s not my bike. And I’m moving back to Arizona, tomorrow. They treat me like this because I’m Mexican. My folks are in Arizona—they’ll help me. I should have gone home a long time ago. Since I came to California my life’s been one long screwed-up downhill ride.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Mama, I don’t wanna leave,” said the boy.

She turned around, glared at him, and snapped, “Shut the fuck up.”

I didn’t appreciate her language or attitude. You could see the shock on my son’s face, and shortly thereafter he handed the boy the Happy Meal toy, as if he thought that might make the kid feel better.

The girl certainly wasn’t the most likable person I’d ever run into, but I sure did feel sorry for her son. And I hoped their lives would improve, if indeed they were returning to Arizona. When I dropped her off, and after we helped her unload the moped, she didn’t thank us. She simply turned away and began to push the moped down a narrow driveway towards a ramshackle house, the boy tagging behind.

I did help her though. I’m pretty sure I did.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

BRAVE

2010-01-21T20:46:00.000-08:00

I was in the car, driving somewhere I didn’t want to go to, to do something I wish I didn’t have to do…

When, one of those talking heads on the radio related a story about Anderson Cooper in Haiti. The talking head said that Anderson witnessed crazed looters throwing cinder blocks off a building, down into the crowd on the street, and a boy was hit in the head. It seemed the blow to the boy’s head caused him to be so unsteady on his feet--he could not stand up--let alone run for cover. More cinder blocks were poised from above, and nobody was doing anything to help the injured boy. If he didn’t move he would be hit a second time. Anderson Cooper rushed to his side and helped the boy to safety. News reporters don’t do that kind of thing, they just don’t.

The talking head started laughing and mocking Anderson Cooper, saying that everyone in Haiti has AIDS, and just wait, when the do-gooder reporter returned to the USA he would be shunned by all his buddies, because nobody would want anything to do with a guy that had been covered with the blood of a Haitian boy.

If I could have reached through the radio I would have socked that IDIOT smack dab in the kisser.

Look, I’m not Anderson Cooper fan. I don’t watch the news all that much. But I have to ask, how many people do you know that would rush to help that boy, putting their own life in jeopardy, in such a manner? Could you be so brave?

I had no idea that Anderson Cooper was gay, (for the record I almost feel as if the radio guy was holding that against him, GAG.) I had heard that his mother was Gloria Vanderbilt. I once saw a movie about her childhood, seemed the heiress had a tumultuous beginning. She married several times, and had Anderson and his brother later in life. His brother committed suicide right in front of her. It must have been horrifying to see her own son jump out of the window while she tried in vain to stop him.

Anyway, that’s about the extent of what I know about Anderson Cooper—except this—he’s obviously a better person than most. He did what so many would never do. I am a fan now. A big fan.

The Outer Limits

2010-01-19T20:45:00.001-08:00

Hey there! I've been out of loop. MIA. And all I can say is, I've been way out there, in the outer limits. The periphery so to speak. Go ahead, tell me you haven't been there, but I won't believe you.

But, here I am, back! Good or bad, this blog is like a garden, I may not weed it all the time, I may not plant new seeds (or bulbs), and I may not water as much as I should, but doesn't that make it less of a garden. I think not!

It is winter, so cut me some slack. Spring's on it's way and I know the garden will benefit. All I can say is, I'm glad you're with me now, it means so much. And I plan to drop by and visit you soon. The truth be known, the outer limits are kinda scary, and lonely.

FOR ALL OF YOU TOO YOUNG TO REMEMBER, THE OUTER LIMITS WAS A TV PROGRAM WHEN I WAS A KID, WHICH EXPLORED THE UNKNOWN, THE MYSTERIOUS, AND THE CREEPY FRIGHTENING REALMS OUR PARENTS DIDN'T WANT US TO KNOW ABOUT. BELOW IS THE OPENING OF THE SHOW...

There is nothing wrong with your television set. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission. If we wish to make it louder, we will bring up the volume. If we wish to make it softer, we will tune it to a whisper. We will control the horizontal. We will control the vertical. We can roll the image, make it flutter. We can change the focus to a soft blur or sharpen it to crystal clarity. For the next hour, sit quietly and we will control all that you see and hear. We repeat: there is nothing wrong with your television set. You are about to participate in a great adventure. You are about to experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to... The Outer Limits.
— Opening narration – The Control Voice – 1960s

Sweet Friends

2010-01-15T12:41:00.000-08:00

Michele Emrath from Southern City Mysteries has bestowed upon me Happy 101. Now I will go ahead and share ten things that make me blissfully happy. Then I’m to tag ten bloggy friends. So they might see fit to repeat history.

BLISS INDUCING STUFF

1. My very first cup of morning coffee. I grind my own beans and coffee is best if you drink it immediately after it’s been brewed.

2. When my phone beeps and someone is sending me a cute photo. Especially if it’s one of my kids sending a pic of a grandchild. Yay! Got two today!

3. When I settle down to watch a movie in our home theater room and little Lita (think 3 lb Chihuahua) gets on my lap, burrows under the blanket and falls asleep.

4. The Husband, in general.

5. New shoes turn me on.

6. Traveling anywhere for any reason.

7. Project Runway

8. A perfectly chilled glass of chardonnay

9. Going on a hike and watching The Husband photograph wildflowers in the spring.

10. Writing fiction.

My posse:

Cheryl – Cheryl de los Reyes Cruz A Work In Progress
Sylvia – Sylvia From Over The Hill
Elspeth – It’s A Mystery
Stacy – A Writer’s Point of View
Alix – Casa Hice
Kristen – Me, My Muse and I
Delphin – The Romantic Query Letter and The Happy Ever After
Boomer – Baby Boomer Bliss
Kim – The Child
Katy -- Crazy Mommy

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head

2010-01-13T12:38:00.000-08:00

Crap, it's really coming down.

I used to love the rain, I was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. But the allure is lost on me anymore. Rain makes my dogs stink, and when they come in from outside they leave mudddy paw prints all over the floor. I know we need the rain. God knows we don't get enough. But it's so bleak.

I spontaneously began to hum the lyrics to Albert Hammond's, It Never Rains in Southern California, a few minutes ago. I found myself wondering what happened to that guy, he was so popular and then seemed to disappear.

Bless Wikipedia, I found answers! In case you were wondering, it turns out he's prolific as all get out, he certainly didn't become a car salesman or a real estate investor. Did you know he wrote One Moment in Time, the song Whitney Houston performed at the Olympics in Seoul Korea? And he's written songs for some biggies, including Elton John and Aretha Franklin. He wrote To All the Girls I Loved Before, (don't hold that against the poor guy, the song sold millions, somebody must have liked it.) His son, Albert Hammond Jr. is in the band The Strokes. Mr. Hammond was inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame on June 19 2008. And, in January 2010 Hammond's busy writing material with Welsh singer Duffy for her second album. Who knew?

Seems it Never Rains in Southern California

by Albert Hammond

Got on board a westbound 747
Didn't think before deciding what to do
Ooh, that talk of opportunities
TV breaks and movies
Rang true
Sure rang true

Seems it never rains in southern California
Seems I've often heard that kind of talk before
It never rains in California
But girl don't they warn ya
It pours, man it pours

Out of work, I'm out of my head
Out of self respect, I'm out of bread
I'm underloved, I'm underfed, I wanna go home
It never rains in California
But girl don't they warn ya
It pours, man it pours

[Instrumental Interlude]

Will you tell the folks back home I nearly made it
Had offers but didn't know which one to take
Please don't tell 'em how you found me
Don't tell 'em how you found me
Gimme a break, give me a break

Seems it never rains in southern California
Seems I've often heard that kind of talk before
It never rains in California
But girl don't they warn ya
It pours, man it pours

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Topsy-Turvy

2010-01-12T13:59:00.000-08:00

It’s a fine thing to mix it up every now and then. In fact, the beginning of a New Year is the perfect time to change our "mode of operandi". We human beings are creatures of habit, and although it’s a trite concept, it’s frickin true, the older we get the more likely we are to become accustomed to living our lives a certain way.

Funny, I realized the kitchen is the first stop for instruction on how to go topsy-turvy. Someone once decided to take some juicy pineapple and a little flour and bake their cake upside down. What a concept! And someone once decided to take a little flour, turn the griddle up high, or maybe a flat rock heated over the fire? And then they mixed up flour, flour is a handy kitchen staple, with a little water and baking soda and voila—hotcakes. Although you'll have to flip those puppies, a tricky process at best, but if you manage to pull it off without a hitch you'll end up with delicious delivery systems for syrup! And what about the hazard-prone-pizza-dough-toss? Certainly this practice could end in disaster. But, if executed properly, another delicious result will transpire, especially if there’s a wood-fired oven at hand.

And who came up the flip hair-do? A style that defies gravity. I don’t know about you, but my hair doesn’t “flip out” on it’s own. Doesn’t Mary Tyler Moore pull it off nicely? I know; chances are Ms. Moore employed a stylist, or a team of stylists wielding gallons of super-hold hairspray. How on earth would you flip your own hair at the back of your own head? I can’t imagine how it could be humanly possible to accomplish this task on one's own. But no matter—doesn’t she look marvelous?

Whoever invented the topsy-turvy tomato plant thingy—what a bloody genius! I bought one of these last season but never got around to setting it up. I plan on using it this year, as soon as spring rears its warm little head. Tomatoes do very well here in Southern California, but it can get too hot for them in the thick of summer. Hanging this contraption in a semi shaded spot will help save the plants from scorching. I love it! I wonder if growing tomatoes up off the ground will eliminate those ugly-fat-green-horned worms that always seem to find the plants? One can only hope. Or will the industrious critters assemble and camp out underneath the hanging vines until enough of them show up to climb piggyback? Until some of them are able to climb high enough to reach the juicy plant? Shudder.

Just last night, a couple of my secondary characters living in my WIP got together. Now, these two were not supposed to meet, they were never scheduled to have a thing to do with each other. But now they’re up to no good and have succeeded in turning my story on its pointy little head! Back in the saddle and behind my Mac this morning, I analyzed this turn of events, and realized their antics only served to energize the WIP. I am pleased with the results.

Sometimes, for no particular reason, I drive down roads I’ve never driven before, even if it means I won’t reach my destination as fast as usual. I’m one of those that grows bored when submerged in the same old same old. I realize that this post relates to my last post, and I guess that's indicative of my current state of mind.

I’d love to hear how you all are shaking things up, sending monotony topsy-turvy, flipping your routines or notions upside down.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Different Strokes

2010-01-10T14:57:00.000-08:00

The Husband and I enjoy strolling through the farmer’s market here in Old Town Temecula. The sights and sounds fill our senses. We buy locally grown veggies, fresh homemade hummus, fruit, or whatever catches our eye that particular morning. Without naming names, (you know who you are), I asked someone to go with us, and their flippant response was, “No thanks. What’s the point? I don’t do outdoor markets.”

Okay. Whatever. Not your cup of tea? No skin off my pointy nose.

It took The Husband, way back in the 80’s when big-haired chicks roamed the planet in acid-washed jeans, a couple of years to indoctrinate me into appreciating sushi. Now, I love it. Well, most of it. I won’t touch sea urchin with a ten-foot pole, let alone my mouth. All our kids go wacky for sushi, which by the way is no cheap date. My brother, on the other hand, will not even consider Japanese food. I’ve done my best to make it very clear, don’t even try, you’re wasting your breath trying to convince my brother, (The Husband is big on turning other's into converts), he’s never going to step foot inside our favorite sushi bar, no way Jose.

Let me throw a few more well-worn clichés around: one man/woman’s trash is another man/woman’s treasure ~ to each his own ~ whatever turns you on, floats your boat, fires your rocket…

I have a friend that’s positively over the moon about bidding for stuff on e-Bay. She’s a storehouse of knowledge about cutting deals and shipping costs. I admit freely to being totally ignorant on the subject, although The Husband has picked up some computer and camera equipment at phenomenal prices. I just haven’t been motivated to check out e-Bay, and my friend thinks I’m losing out on one of life’s greatest pleasures.

When it comes to books, music, and movies, our preferences tend to really stand out. I just watched a movie called The Brother’s Bloom, an offbeat film to be sure, but I LOVED it. I probably won’t recommend this film to most people my age because I’m quite certain they won’t appreciate it the way I do. And that’s okay, different strokes for different folks, (more clichés, sorry I can't seem to stop myself.)

When it comes to choosing books and movies, I’m constantly amazed at how limited most people’s choices are, mystery buffs tend to stick with mystery, fantasy w/fantasy, romance w/romance, thriller w/thriller, YA w/YA, and so on and so forth. I'm a fairly versatile reader and watcher of movies. I’m multi-dimensional and quite open to new adventures.

I wasn’t all that interested in seeing The Kite Runner. I just didn’t have the vaguest idea what it was about, but when The Husband put it one the tube I grabbed my popcorn and joined him. What a great movie! Now, I must read the book. Along those same lines, when my son talked me into reading Harry Potter several years ago, I didn’t expect to enjoy the book as much as I did. We bonded over Rowling's prose, how cool is that? Being flexible pays off at times.

How about you? Have you given any books or movies a whirl that you normally wouldn't have considered? Do you love something that others think is strange?

8 BALL

2010-01-08T13:10:00.000-08:00

The project I’m currently working on requires tons of research. Despite common assumptions, you can’t always find what you need to know on the Internet. It’s inevitable that you’ll have to crack open a book, resort to shopping on e-bay and/or Amazon searching for out of print material, that kind of thing. It’s all very time consuming, but it can also be quite invigorating. I am exhilarated, at this stage of the game anyway. A mile high stack of books stares me in the face. Post-Its all around.

Whilst immersed in this research mode I get so enthralled I end up delving in far deeper than necessary—out of sheer curiosity and the hunger to learn more. I’ve got to exercise a little more restraint. Goodness sakes, there are only so many hours in the day. And I’ve got to get some bloody writing done! Not to mention the peskier details of life, feeding, sleeping (not getting much of that), paying bills, car maintenance, laundry, grocery shopping, BLOGGING AND VISITING MY PALS BLOGS, whew! (Wiping brow)

As with so many things, one thing often leads to another.

I am reminded of the days when schlepped all over town looking for the perfect samples to bring to a client, and how I’d get utterly carried away, picking up ideas and inspiration for my own house, future clients, or my parents and friends. So varied and compelling were the choices, I just couldn’t limit myself. My SUV would be jam-packed with wonderful fabric swatches, tile boards, cabinet door samples, squares of stone, carpet, wood, and stacks of wallpaper books; yay, wallpaper’s back, better patterns and colors than ever before, and with a vengeance, I might add. Well, you get the picture.

Whoa, I think, slow down sister. Don’t bog yourself down. Go in, find what’s crucial, and get out. The writing’s the thing. You can always poke around for more facts if need be. Quit pigging out on knowledge as if you’re some greedy Roman with a trough to spew in when you get too full. I wonder; can one’s brain get too full? Sensory overload?

No matter, I’m a fiend, that’s the short and long of it. I’m on a roll, behind the eight ball, and it feels fine.

FYI: why I wrote that last fantasy post about getting in a car and driving somewhere alone? I pictured myself recharging as I sped along the highway, and words pouring out and onto the keys of my trusty laptop, (once I found a non-descript roadside motel to stay for the night, so as to avoid distraction.) A girl can dream can’t she?

What about you? How are all your projects coming along? What’s you current fantasy? Keep it clean ;-)

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Like Barbie

2010-01-06T23:11:00.000-08:00

I have never climbed behind the wheel and gone on a road trip by myself. Like Barbie in the picture, I always seem to have company. What if I did get get in the car and strike off on my own? Where would I go? How would I manage to get myself free from entanglements in order to do something so unheard of?

What about you, have you ever gone on a road trip alone? And if you could pull it off, where would you set off too?

I'd head for Taos New Mexico, that's where I'd go, if I could leave today.

Bossy Lizzy Rules the Roost

2010-01-05T13:09:00.000-08:00

Last night I was talking AT The Husband about something terrible that happened to us, just running off at the mouth, when he suddenly said, in the most heart-wrenching tone, “Are you trying to make me feel worse?” I continued on with a few more defense-laden sentences before I HEARD MYSELF. One last pitiful spurt and I then trailed off, my motor sputtered down.

Did I sound like a pessimist? I pride myself on not being one of those people. The Husband loves and likes me because I am upbeat, supportive, and capable. I’d like to report that my performance last night was an isolated incident but after analyzing myself for a long spell during the wee hours of the morning, I came to the conclusion, I’m developing into a whiner. Oh no. God forbid. I was raised to pick myself up by my bootstraps, to pursuit the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, to show strength in the face of adversity. I haven’t been performing well of late.

Life has a way of beating us down. It’s easy to see how. We pay the price mentally and eventually the mental blows take a physical toll. It’s our choice, how we perceive any particular life event. The well-worn cup half empty or half full adage applies. My cup is truly brimming, when you get right down to it. I know that. Then, why am I letting things bring me down?

I made a promise to Whiney Lizzy last night, I told her that she is still lovable, but she has to get a grip. I read her the riot act. She was listening, Bossy Lizzy rules the roost after all.

Of course, this morning I couldn’t help but consider the characters in my WIP. Are they three-dimensional? Nobody is courageous, idiotic, shallow, thrifty, selfish, altruistic, or beautiful or ugly one hundred percent of the time. Nobody.

Human beings encounter moods, setbacks, accidents, highpoints, death, flat tires, rewards, potholes, irritations, illness, regret, and react to these various incidents in various ways. It’s impossible to know how we will respond at any particular time, we never know. I’ve laughed when I should have screamed.

Do your characters surprise you? I say it’s good when they do, because if they surprise the author, chances are they'll surprise the reader and keep them engaged.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

My Saltmine

2010-01-04T12:59:00.000-08:00

There’s just too much work at hand. I’m buried. I’ll be in my office all day and all night. Forgive me for being such a terrible blogger. But, I really don’t have much of a post today. My head is so full I can’t even come up with anything to say here. Zilch.

So I leave you with a thought provoking quote from an extraordinary author:

~~ A story is not like a road to follow … it's more like a house. You go inside and stay there for a while, wandering back and forth and settling where you like and discovering how the room and corridors relate to each other, how the world outside is altered by being viewed from these windows. And you, the visitor, the reader, are altered as well by being in this enclosed space, whether it is ample and easy or full of crooked turns, or sparsely or opulently furnished. You can go back again and again, and the house, the story, always contains more than you saw the last time. It also has a sturdy sense of itself of being built out of its own necessity, not just to shelter or beguile you.

— Alice Munro

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Molding My Life

2010-01-02T14:29:00.000-08:00

Anais Nin ~~ I made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me.

Amen, sister!

For New Year’s we sipped champagne, scarfed a little chocolate, and played Scrabble Slam.

Today, the laundry waits. The Christmas ornaments beg to be wrapped up and tucked away for another year. Oh, and I better clean out the fridge.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Flag Flying

2009-12-30T15:38:00.000-08:00

Three examples pictured: Good old stars and stripes, Soviet flag, and (comes in many guises), the ever-popular FREAK FLAG.

I just finished reading a long novel. I’m not going to mention the author, or the name the book, because I don’t want to get involved in critiquing.

Here’s the thing; the writing was so good, really good. But, and this is a big but, the author saw fit to politicize and lecture, as the book progressed the politicizing intensified to such a degree I found myself growing weary, very weary. I longed to connect to the protagonist emotionally, but never did. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say the communist party was the main character.

Injecting political affairs into a work of fiction is a tricky business. I was taught never to openly lecture the reader. If an author ventures into this territory, they ought to tread lightly. Most of us don’t choose fiction to be harangued into holding a particular opinion or view. If we’re looking for information and opinion we buy nonfiction.

There exist oodles of great novels involving heavy subject matter, to be sure. Charles Dickens had a way of showcasing the inequities between the classes in not-so-Merry-old-England. Ernest Hemingway wrote about the brutality of war in For Whom the Bell Tolls. James Jones set us in Pearl Harbor during WWII in From Here to Eternity. Margaret Mitchell tackled the Civil War with her epic Gone With the Wind. What each of these authors managed to do with great skill was to pen interesting stories with full-blown characters, constructing authentic characters, believable narrative, and a lively plot to keep readers engaged.

Too much lecturing bogs the reader down. The heavy-handed author’s agenda, (especially if the reader does not share their particular world view), may alienate, as opposed to absorb. I don’t know about you, but I am not interested in having my novel tossed aside because I stepped on the reader’s head too hard.

Currently I am grappling with these issues as I work on my own historical piece. No easy feat, this delicate balancing act! I’m pleased that I chose to read the above-mentioned novel. The author did so much right, but in the end, I put the book down feeling cheated. And I am extremely motivated, not to go down that same road. Oh sure, there are many positive reviews of her book posted on Amazon. Some people love being lectured to, especially if they agree with the subject matter. I for one, do not. So I do what most authors do, I write what I enjoy reading.

Do you grapple with these issues? Do you think I’m making too big a deal about this subject? Can you name a novel that put you off in such a manner? Or, better yet, can you name a novel that waved a particular flag in such a manner as to inspire and influence you in a meaningful way?

I will choose the runaway bestseller, The Help, to illustrate my point. Kathryn Stockett writes about race relations during the civil rights era, but I never once felt as if I were being preached at. The Help is one of the best books I’ve ever read. If you haven’t read it, please do. You won’t be sorry.

Trees and Tulips and Vines and Noodles

2009-12-28T13:39:00.000-08:00

Pictured above: The Haunted Christmas Tree, The Vines, Tulips My Brother Bought Me, Christmas Dinner, Singapore Street Noodles.

Hey, guess what? I missed you guys terribly!

We had a great Christmas. We all made a deal to only buy the kiddies presents. So, the holiday was about what it’s supposed to be about. Perfect.

In answer to several inquiries, yes, the picture above is of the little tree I decorated this year. Usually I decorate a GIANT white one. I prefer white trees because I pile on so many ornaments, and they tend to stand out so much better against the white. It takes days and days for me to decorate the big tree, so I decided not to go there this year.

But, turned out this little green tree was haunted, (okay, some might prefer the word defective.) The lights kept acting up, turning on, turning off. At one point, (I think it was the day after Christmas), my daughter cried, “Look, the green lights on the tree are turning bright white!” Heads turned, and we all witnessed the intensity of the lights increase to such a degree I encouraged my son to unplug the thing before it broke out in flames, (I suppose a fake tree could catch fire if it got hot enough???) And so, it remains unplugged.

I made the easiest Christmas dinner ever. I slow-cooked a roast beef, added roasted garlic mashed potatoes with a Stilton-laced gravy, and green beans almandine, plus a salad. Talk about delicious. We had a lovely meal.

I enjoy the time between Christmas and New Year. The pressure is off, a person is able to kick back and savor the remainder of the holiday. The best part, we still have leftover Chocolate Torte and homemade New York Cheesecake. I baked up a gluten-free cheesecake with a hazelnut crust, and nobody but nobody had any idea it was gluten-free, it was that good, if I do say so myself. I have eaten two pieces.

The kids have been to the mall and to Target. Not this old girl. I won’t go near a store post-holiday. While they were out shopping yesterday The Husband took me on a Sunday drive through Temecula’s vineyards, (not twenty minutes from our house). We stopped at a lovely winery for a late lunch and got the bad news that they’d closed their restaurant down. Bummer, I guess they take in more money with the wine tasting. I snapped a picture of the withering vines and we hopped in the car and left. We were hungry, damn it, and in search of food. The sun goes down so early this time of year, the sky began to turn pinkish as we followed the roads that snake through wine country. The views of the hills covered in rows of multi-colored vines, (some still heavy with withering deep-purple grapes), were positively breathtaking.

We ended up eating in town, at PF Chang’s again, (I swear I’m not on their payroll), and The Husband decided on a Bloody Maria and I ordered my first Pear Ginger Mojito. We ate Singapore Street Noodles and Lemon Chicken. The two of us were so content by the end of the meal we could have sat there nursing our drinks for quite a while, but felt guilty because so many were gathered and waiting for tables.

I find this remainder of the holiday lends itself to introspection, looking back and looking forward. Can you believe we have almost reached 2010? I have great hopes for the upcoming year. What about you?

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

It's a Bling Bling Christmas

2009-12-19T13:19:00.001-08:00

Pictured above: Our holiday mantle featuring freakishly thin snow people (the boy snow person is a bit metrosexual) ~ a cairn terrier (Toto dog) ~ornaments on one of our trees (yay) ~ the mighty Skeena (I lived near this river long ago) ~ and last, but cerainly not least, chocolate, it is Christmas after all.

One of these days I'll figure out how to add pics into the body of the post, until then bear with me, please.

Think Julie Andrews. Listed are a few of my favorite things, in no particular order:

~Shiny Christmas tree ornaments, (love, love, love em, I swear I must be part raccoon)

~Susan Boyle's rendition of Wild Horses

~Unusual throw pillows

~Bryce Canyon at sunset (well, anytime of day, but sunset's truly magical)

~The movie Babe, Pig in the City

~Children's belly laughs

~PF Chang's gluten-free lemon chicken

~Paris, France

~Camping

~My Mac (faithful accomplice)

~Cairn terriers

~Deja-vu

~Champagne

~Mountain lakes surrounded by evergreens

~Elegant hotel rooms

~California wild poppies

~The Skeena River in British Columbia, Canada

~Chocolate (you suspected as much, didn't you?)

I'm taking a brief hiatus for the holidays. Look for me around the 27th, give or take, depending on how things go. I want to wish every single one of you a Very Merry Christmas, and if Christmas isn't your holiday, then Happy Holidays! I will miss you all, Bloggy Buddies!

Giveaway!!!

2009-12-17T23:43:00.000-08:00

Cool Giveaway if you have a girl in your life/and who the heck doesn't? Click and find out the fun details.

PLEASE NOTE: For all of you that asked who on earth is that in the picture, it's Judy Champagne, doing Judy Garland. Click here to visit her site.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Human Emotion

2009-12-16T14:32:00.000-08:00

My daughter and I were having an argument last evening, (no screaming and yelling, mind you), but we raised our voices at each other while she was holding her baby. At seven and a half months my granddaughter’s expanding her horizons daily. Upon witnessing our disagreement she broke out in tears. Inconsolable tears! Sobs!

We calmed the baby down and had her back to her smiley-self in no time. I can’t remember what the spat started over, and either can my daughter, some inconsequential thing. We felt like a pair of heels, making our precious sweetie cry, I can tell you that.

I was trying to fall asleep last night and began to consider human emotion, specifically the more extreme versions, and how anger can turn into rage, melancholy into out and out depression, and mere infatuation into full-blown obsession.

As a writer, I concern myself with writing true emotion, without resorting to melodrama. We are constantly instructed to show, not tell. It’s preferable to depict the character’s mindset rather than lamely describe their feelings.

For example, one should never write: Jane was angry with her boss for scolding her in front of a client.

A preferable way to show how Jane was feeling would be: After her stern boss scolded Jane in front of a client, she punished him by adding sugar to his coffee with cream, although he had demanded Splenda.

While we are absorbed in our fits of emotion we don’t stop to analyze how we are feeling right there and then. In fact, most of us digest our tragedies in bits and bites. It will take months, even years to process what happened to us, to grapple with the effects. The same goes for three-dimensional characters. They grapple. Some act out in destructive manners. Some may suffer, but endure by coming to terms with their pain. Addicts are people with overwhelming, unresolved grief. In an effort not to feel that unresolved grief they drink to excess, or take drugs, doing their best to stuff the feelings back down inside. In an attempt to end suffering, they add even more heartache into the mix.

Extreme emotions don’t always manifest in obvious action. It’s tempting to write: Jane fell down on her hands and knees after the doctor delivered the news that her baby died on the operating table.

Chances are; a woman having just heard such horrifying news might react with disbelief as opposed to sorrow; a self-protection of sorts kicks in. I have witnessed such behavior first hand. A better version might be: The doctor took Jane’s hand in his, and said softly, “I’m so sorry, Curtis didn’t make it. His heart gave out.” Jane shook her head, pulled the doctor’s hand close to her chest and squeezed tight. “No,” she said. “That’s not true. It can’t be!”

The truth of the matter is, there’s no right or wrong way for anyone to act or react at any given time. We are all individuals and differing emotions bring out differing reactions. The trick is to illustrate the depth of our characters in such a manner as to keep the reader convinced. That’s our job. Not an easy one by any means. I write and then I re-write, bearing all this in mind. Did I do the best job conveying how the character felt? I constantly ask myself this question.

Nothing irritates me more than when I’m reading along and feel as if I’ve read those same words a thousand times before. Predictable is not good. Memorable characters do memorable things.

What is the most extreme emotion you’ve ever felt personally?
What is the most extreme emotion you’ve ever attempted to write about?

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

The Set Up

2009-12-14T16:44:00.000-08:00

I do my best to give gifts that I hope will make a lasting impression. Looking back on my childhood, I remember the Christmas gift I just-had-to-have-or-I-would-surely-burst. Much like the kid in the movie A Christmas Story felt about that coveted Red Ryder gun, I hungered with a fiery passion to own a certain toy. I cannot recall ever wanting anything so badly before. I had been to the matinee to see the movie Mary Poppins. And the much-in-demand present for girls that year was a mini plastic version of Julie Andrews with a fetching brunette up-do, holding an umbrella. Here’s the peculiar aspect of the story—I didn’t even like dolls—dolls were my little sister’s obsession.

Eavesdropping, I overheard my dad tell my mom that he had driven all over town, he had visited several stores and they were fresh out of Mary Poppins dolls. He suggested they buy me a new winter coat instead. A new coat? A lousy coat! I skulked to my room where I let out a frustrated cry.

On Christmas morning Dad instructed my big brother to hand me a big soft box. Just the kind of box an unexciting winter coat would be wrapped in. I tried my best to muster up a little enthusiasm as I tore off the wrapping paper but it wasn’t easy, I didn’t give a hoot if the sleeves on my ratty coat were too short, if it was missing a button or two. I was surprised to find that the box didn’t contain a coat after all. I was staring down at a fluffy white robe sporting a chiffon sash. It was a pretty. I had to admit that much.

“Well,” Mom said, “try it on.” I pulled it out of the box, as I slipped it on over my pajamas, my brother handed my sister a similar box. With lightening speed, she tore open her present, and wouldn’t you know it? Although we were two years apart, my parents insisted on dressing us alike. I hated wearing the same exact clothing as my little sister. When would they get it through their thick skulls? We were not the stinking Bobbsey Twins!

My tiny little sister was positively thrilled. As she twirled around the living room on her tippy-toes, modeling her new robe, I sat back and pouted.

“What’s wrong,” Dad asked.

“Nothing,” I sank further into the cushions of the couch.

He handed me another present. It was heavy. “This might put a smile on your sourpuss.”

It was a board game, based on the presidents of our country. I feigned interest. Dad explained that he had picked it out himself. He would help set up the game and teach me how to play, thus imparting his delight with all things presidential to his progeny.

My brother shook his head and said, “Count me out. I’m not playing. Sounds boring.”

Dad gifted Mom an iron, a stand-up mixer, and a set of pots and pans. I attributed his choices to their ensuing break-up and separation. My mother was no happier with her presents than I was, I could tell. She rustled up a couple of oohs and awes, but how on Earth could she be blown away by household appliances? I knew I wouldn't be thrilled, if my future husband gave me stuff to facilitate doing chores. Yuk.

Dad suddenly stood up, walked across the room, and reached behind the record cabinet to pull out one last present. He handed that last present to me, and behold, the box was just the right size and shape. I shook it for good measure. I felt certain I was holding my very own Mary Poppins doll!

They had set me up. My parents had fabricated a story, knowing full well I was lurking about that day. They staged the phony conversation about the shortage of Mary Poppins dolls, adding the finishing touch, planting the seed that I was going to get a winter coat instead. How clever. How deliciously diabolical. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that they were capable of being so shrewd.

I lugged around my gift for a couple of days, discovered it was just another dumb doll, and eventually abandoned the previously coveted Mary Poppins to my sister’s collection of Barbie’s and diapered babies.

However, the game about the presidents, I adored. I urged everyone to play, every chance I got. The Nelson triplets from down the street, my unenthusiastic big brother, even my fidgety little sister got roped into sitting with me while I displayed my knowledge about Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, and Thomas Jefferson. But, even more impressive was my ability to remember what had excited Dad, much more obscure facts and aspects about lesser-known presidents, and their foibles, deeds, and accomplishments while serving in office.

And, that robe, oh how I loved that fluffy white robe with the luxurious chiffon sash. They were the most glamorous garments my sister and I had ever owned to date. We would bring out mom’s crystal for months to come, pretending to drink champagne instead of pink lemonade, donned in our finery, doing our best Audrey Hepburn. Dahling!

Feel free to share your memories of Christmas gifts, (given or received), from the past, won’t you?

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Holly, Jolly, By Golly

2009-12-13T16:32:00.000-08:00

Last post I included a picture to show how terrific I looked while decorating my tree. Here's another, showing how terrific I look when I bake and decorate oodles of cookies for the kiddies, and multi-tasker extraordinaire that I am, while ordering my organic free-range Christmas turkey. It must be THAT time of year. I'm buried, MIA right now, busy with visitors and Christmas this and that. I'll try to pop on over and visit you guys as soon as I can get a little one on one computer time. Love and miss y'all!

NO MO EGGNOG!

2009-12-11T01:34:00.001-08:00

Well, finally started decorating, didn't get all that much done, but I am getting somewhere. We played Christmas music and that goes a long way in setting the mood. I drank a couple of eggnogs, (how many calories are in those things? I don't even want to know.) I wouldn't normally drink anything vaguely resembling eggnog any other time of the year, but I downed two, and now I have a nagging headache and my belly hurts. Too rich. That's the end of the eggnog for me.

I need to make time to watch Elf, and Love Actually, and The Family Stone, and It's a Wonderful Life, and Christmas Story.

I need to mail my Christmas cards tomorrow, finish up with this decorating business, and buy some more presents. I need to be grateful that I am able to do all of the above.

(Please note: Second photo from the top, that's exactly what I look like while decorating my tree--doesn't everybody?)

Santa, Baby

2009-12-09T19:46:00.000-08:00

So, today, The Two Darling (sometimes) Daughters, The Oldest Darling Daughter's Always Fabulous Hubby, and The Incredibly Cute Granddaughter demanded I join them on an outing to The Mall. I'm not fussy about malls, but The Incredibly Cute Granddaughter was going to get her picture taken on Santa's lap. Couldn't miss that! The shot above is a little blurry, but the one we paid for is perfect, but not digital so I couldn't post it here. I'm happy to report, Santa sported a real beard, and The Incredibly Cute Granddaughter didn't break into tears when her daddy set her on the fat guy's lap. In fact, that baby was beaming, very impressive. I had fun watching the various children react to Santa. One little boy, (dressed in a nifty sweater vest), really launched into a description of what he wanted, and did not want to stop instructing Santa on the nuances and importance of each gift requested. I'd say the little guy was around four, and nobody in line minded. It was sweet, how important the moment was to him.

The Oldest Darling Daughter snapped a photo of The Youngest Darling Daughter making a silly fish-face from the back of the car. I like the way her eyes are framed in the rearview mirror, very Hitchcockesque.

We went to the YardHouse for lunch and none of us ordered a beer or martini or any alcohol of any kind, (too early in the day). The Youngest Darling Daughter carried her Starbuck's latte inside and the staff didn't seem to mind.

Then we drove over to Super Target, where I finally broke down and purchased some Christmas presents. Yay! I hope I'm on a roll now. I found my address book so I can start sending out cards, and I may as well send Santa Baby a letter while I'm at it, let him know that I'm still waiting for that duplex, and those checks. Ho, ho, ho!

Side note: It's too bad you can't see but the baby's shoes were silver and sparkly, just like her hair band. So darned Cute!

Micro Fiction

2009-12-08T13:49:00.000-08:00

I'm reposting micro fiction (just a slice of life piece) from way back when hardly anybody read my blog, because it will give you all something to read while I am busy banging away on my current project. I'm going strong, getting absolutely no sleep, but moving right along.

Day to Day

Dorothy sat by the window smoking and listening to the faucet drip, drip, drip, into the smelly sink. She didn’t fiddle with the handle to bring the dripping to an end because she was too busy exploring her newfound freedom, the freedom to ignore such things, the freedom to be lazy. Her over-achieving-anal-retentive husband Conner had unexpectedly keeled over and died a few months earlier, leaving her to her own devices. Leaving her free to toss dirty clothes on the floor of the bedroom, leaving her free to scarf greasy takeout straight out of Styrofoam containers. Leaving her alone. What Dorothy couldn’t get used to, what she hated most about widowhood, besides the obvious heartache of losing her other half, was being the one that had to make all the day-to-day decisions. Their son Peter handled the funeral arrangements, he had his father's knack for such tasks. Immediately after hosting a catered affair for friends and neighbors at his childhood home, he’d flown back to Baltimore, to his waiting family.

Dorothy had never paid the bills or balanced the checkbook, nor had she filed insurance papers or tax records. These tasks had never been her problem. Now they were.

It occurred to her, she wouldn’t be so idle, so lost, had she seen fit to form friendships with other women over the years, had she taken classes of some sort, had she taken up a fulfilling hobby. But she had done none of those things. Keeping house, raising their son, seeing to her husband’s needs, hiding out back in the tool shed to smoke, those were the activities that constituted the sum total of her life. Conner abhorred cigarettes, and filthy slovenly habits in general. It was inevitable that she go straight down the backward road to ruination without her good husband around to keep her on a straight and narrow.

Really, she needed to find something, anything. Someone to help her hold it together. How long could she stew in her juices? Fifty some years roll by, and there you are, alone, old, and at a loss about how to proceed. Taking a shower would be a good start, changing out of sweats and into something clean would make her feel better.

Showered and dressed, Dorothy reached for the phone book, looked up a maid agency, boldly punched in the number, and spoke with a pleasant woman about sending someone out to whip the house into shape. Then she hopped in the Jeep and drove over to Starbuck’s. Caffeine would help bring things into focus, jolt her into action. Dorothy sat in the back by the cream station, in a stained velveteen armchair, going over her options. She could: learn how to knit, write bad poetry, go back to school and finally get a degree in art history, study the Kabala, volunteer to read to elderly at the local nursing home, join some kind of women’s club. Or maybe she would try one of those dating services and find a man to replace the one she lost. What she needed was a computer. Conner claimed he didn’t have any desire to stare at a PC screen at home as well as work, so they had never owned one.

Dorothy purchased a laptop that very afternoon—an Apple McIntosh. Jeff, the affable young salesman, said the Mac had the easiest operating system. A new operating system was just what the doctor ordered. She’d be able to pay her bills online, the software would balance the books; the computer would make everything so much easier. Or so Jeff claimed it would. By the end of the week she had set up her own Facebook page, and had signed up for a dating service that promised to provide her with quality prospects.

Her first date was with an older man named Blake Simmons. They met at The Macaroni Grill, and he insisted that she order something called a Bellini, even though she would have preferred a glass of white wine. When she ordered fettuccini he insisted that the chicken scaloppini was better, but Dorothy did not change her mind. When the waitress returned Dorothy politely handed over the Bellini and said she’d prefer a glass of wine. Fancy drinks had never appealed to her. It turned out, Blake Simmons didn’t appeal to her either. Thank God she had driven her own car and was able to ditch him.

Dating became a vocation for several busy months. She lost a few pounds, bought new stylish clothes, and changed her hairstyle for the first time in years. Prospects shuffled through her life in a constant parade. LA was full of men looking for love: dentists, pool contractors, florists, musicians, actors, teachers, and one unemployed ex-contractor that had taken to bartending, a rumpled fella named Floyd. Dorothy took an immediate shining to him.

No matter, Floyd did not own a home of his own, and he lived with his ailing mother so he could care for her. No matter, he didn’t have much money, (due to bad business deals and a nasty drawn-out divorce.) No matter, he smoked like a chimney and turned out to be a the sort of slob that would kick off his shoes off and leave them under the kitchen table, the type of guy that drank milk right out of the jug and squeezed the toothpaste tube from the middle, a person that saw no reason not to leave the toilet seat up or to replace an empty toilet paper holder. No matter. Dorothy didn’t mind at all.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Jolly Me of Yesteryear

2009-12-05T13:57:00.000-08:00

Hello! Where are you, Christmas Spirit? Why haven’t you touched me yet? Where’s the festive me, the one that usually resembles the girl pictured above this time of year, the jolly me of yesteryear?

Okay, granted, I still have time, (it’s only the fifth), but we had better kick into Merry Merry gear pretty soon. Not one decoration has been hung, no pretty tree, no sparkling lights, and no welcoming wreaths in sight. I haven’t bought one present, hung one stocking, or sent out one holiday greeting card.

I guess it’s difficult to let you into my aching heart, Christmas Spirit. Losing both parents in December, (Dad just last year), must have tainted the season for me. I need to get into the swing of things, sit down and watch White Christmas, go in the kitchen, bake and decorate a few batches of cookies and butter tarts, set up the tree in the living room, enjoy an eggnog (laced with rum and nutmeg) and hang some of my cherished shiny ornaments. Soon, I will, soon.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Childless, or Not

2009-12-03T14:47:00.000-08:00

In my last post I wrote about leaving your mark. Those of us with children usually feel that our offspring are our biggest contribution to the betterment of the planet and mankind in general. But, what about those that don’t reproduce? Is their role in the overall scheme of things any less worthy?

The Husband and I know, and are close to, several women and men that intentionally set out not to have children, for differing reasons. Here’s an excerpt from a study I nabbed off the Internet:

Objectives. Rapid growth in the size of the childless elderly population has prompted concerns about the negative effects of childlessness on psychological well-being. This study adds to this line of inquiry by examining the effects of childlessness on two important dimensions of elderly persons' psychological well-being: loneliness and depression.

Methods. Using the 1993 Asset and Health Dynamics Among the Oldest Old data set, the authors estimated logistic and ordinary least squares regression models of psychological well-being for a nationally representative sample of people aged 70 and older (N = 6,517).
Results. Childlessness per se did not significantly increase the prevalence of loneliness and depression at advanced ages, net of other factors. There also was no statistical evidence for the hypothesis that childlessness increases loneliness and depression for divorced, widowed, and never married elderly persons. Sex, however, altered how childlessness and marital status influenced psychological well-being. Divorced, widowed, and never married men who were childless had significantly higher rates of loneliness compared with women in comparable circumstances; divorced and widowed men who were childless also had significantly higher rates of depression than divorced and widowed women.

Those that have children tend to pity those that do not, and those without children resent being pitied. I ask you this: is it an accomplishment to reproduce?

Twelve notable women (childless) that left their mark in a significant manner on society as a whole in one way or another:
--Amelia Earheart
--Emily Dickinson
--Mother Teresa
--Oprah Winfrey
--Frida Kahlo
--Katherine Hepburn
--Edith Warton
--Susan B. Anthony
--Queen Elizabeth
--Zora Neale Hurston
--Marilyn Monroe
--The Duchess of Windsor

I offer these childless gentlemen equal representation:
--3 U.S. Presidents; James Madison, James Buchanan, James Polk
--Dick Cavett
--Leonardo Da Vinci
--J. Edgar Hoover
--Truman Capote
--Andy Warhol
--Hans Christian Anderson
--Lord Byron
--Montgomery Cliff
--Cole Porter
--David Hockney
--Sir Francis Bacon

Most of us set about living our lives, unaware of our personal impact on people and the environment around us. Like George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life”, we can’t possibly know the ripples our very being is sending out to the universe. Every human being is essential.

The desire to judge others by our measure of what constitutes a live worth living is strong. Perhaps, when one assumes elevation over another, it serves to feed the ego. I say, different strokes for different folks. If you don’t want to have kids, then don’t have kids. If you want only one, that’s cool. If you want to have five—have five! I’ve been ridiculed (especially in certain circles in Los Angles) for having so many kids. Hey, my Irish Catholic grandmother had 15! When I had my fifth, she called me up a few days later, and said, “Elizabeth, you’re a third of the way through.” “Ha!” I replied. “I’ve gone and shut the factory down.”

When my dad lived in the memory care facility, many of his friends had children that they couldn’t remember, (right up till the end Dad knew he had children, he might mistake us for someone else, but he knew he had three kids), and those that didn’t have children existed in virtually the same state as those that did. Like they say, we come in this world alone and we leave alone.

Do our relationships with our fellow man define us? I’ve known reclusive people that prefer to be solitary, more in tune with nature than people. Introspective sorts. I don’t believe their lives are any less meaningful because they don’t seek the company of others.

I’ll leave you with a couple of quotes:

I don’t want to get to the end of my life and find that I just lived the length of it. I want to have lived the width of it as well – Diane Ackerman

In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us –Virginia Woolf

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Leaving Our Mark

2009-12-01T14:34:00.000-08:00

We met my son, his wife, and my little grandson last weekend, and while we were out walking I snapped this picture. Some brave, (talk about precarious), ambitious soul, decided to take the rocks on the jetty and manipulate them into a manmade sculpture, of sorts. I see these stacks of rocks everywhere. There are many examples along highway 38, which leads to Forest Falls and the back way up the mountain to Big Bear Lake. Huge stacks of rocks.

People have, and always will be, compelled to add their two cents into the mix. We can’t just go out in nature and leave well enough alone. Now, I admit the stacking of rocks, or the gathering of twigs and fashioning them into representations of witches and such isn’t necessarily destructive, not like littering or removing materials from pristine environments. It would seem; us human beings are keen to leave our mark.

I’m no different. Putting aside, (but never discounting), the hugest, most meaningful mark I’ve left on this planet, creating five human beings, (mind you, with the help of The Husband—his seed responsible for 3 precious children, and an unnamed sperm donor—his seed responsible for 2 precious children.) As we drive through different towns here in Southern California I’ll say to The Husband, or my kids, or whoever else might be stuck in the car with me, “Look, there’s the pool table store I designed.”

Passing through Beverly Hills, I cry out, while pointing to the hills dotted with grand houses, “I once bid on a project up there that was designed to house four complete kitchens! And ten bathrooms! Can you imagine needing four kitchens in one dwelling? One of them was to be in a pool pavilion. I didn’t get the job though, lost out to a conglomerate.”

One day, we exited the freeway, searching for a place to go to the bathroom, and ended up in a seedy part of town, “Oh my,” I said, “I’ve been here before. I sold a kitchen to a truck driver and his wife in that neighborhood right over there. The place was a disaster area. My briefcase got hopelessly stuck to the table; it was so sticky. And live wires hung from the ceiling. They had four little boys. The cutest boys you ever saw, stair steps from about age two to eight or nine.” I sighed, thinking of the woman who had claimed that she was going to be a better housekeeper, once the new kitchen was finished. But, we had to return two weeks after the job was completed, to install a range hood that had been on back order, and the new kitchen was well on it’s way to resembling the former, only the cabinet doors were still clinging to their hinges and bare wires weren’t hanging from the ceiling, yet.

My big dream is not only to have books I’ve penned sitting on the bookshelves at the bookstore, but to walk into a public library and find those same books available for some special someone to check out, for free. As a child I got a head rush whenever I brought home a stack of books from the library without being required to spend a red penny. The process always seemed miraculous to me. What a gift!

How do you intend to leave your mark? Or have you already left so many marks you've quit counting?

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

How To Daydream 101

2009-11-29T15:16:00.000-08:00

Do writers and artists daydream more than others? We do, we reside in one long daydream. Our inspiration begins with images, impressions, no more than fantasy, really. We craft these fantasies into stories, or art, our way of organizing the chaos of reality into something informative and entertaining, of expressing what some might find inexpressible.

I wonder if we ever know ourselves, truly know our own selves? How do we gain that distance, the perspective necessary to detach and observe objectively? Is this why artist's are compelled to paint self portraits? Maybe it's an attempt to look inward that drives the writer. Could it be, are various characters representative of facets of our own psyche on display, on the page? Count me out—you might say. I don’t behave the way my characters do! I would never act like that, not in a million years! But, maybe you could—under the right circumstances. Maybe.

Even the most beautiful among us look into the mirror and see flaws.

Charitable types often come to resent their own propensity for selfless acts that offer no visible benefit.

The most sure-footed stumble.

Many rich men never believe they have accumulated enough wealth.

An aloof woman talks down to people but deep inside feels vulnerable and unloved.

A spur of the moment decision can change the course of one’s life forever, for good or bad.

Where is she going with this? You might ask. I guess I’m thinking out loud. Rambling. Feeling my way along. Deciding what to do with these wild imaginings of mine. Crafting unruliness into order, word by word.

I have taken on a huge project. I am not at liberty to divulge just what IT is at this time. But, I will say this; I sure do have my work cut out for me. Whenever I attempt to bite off more than I can chew I remind myself that every daunting task I’ve ever taken on caused me to feel so insecure I felt like a fraud, inept and incapable of pulling it off. And yet I came through. So I let my Cheerleader Self take over. You go girl! Cheerleader Self says! Rah, rah, rah! Cheerleader Self cries. I have learned that she’s somebody I should listen to.

Let me take this opportunity to encourage all of you to bite off more than you can chew. It’s exhilarating.

If you’re willing, give an example of how you’ve stretched yourself and come out ahead. I love it when you share!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

The Party's Over

2009-11-28T13:31:00.000-08:00

Yes, Thanksgiving is over. Our house guests left this morning. And I am bone tired. My fridge smells like stinky seafood, (the juice from my brother's crab legs leaked out and I'm afraid I will have to take everything out and wipe down all surfaces to eliminate the stench, but not today.) Today I am going to rest. I'm beat. I'll try to pop in and visit all your blogs tonight, or perhaps tomorrow. Thank you for all the kind thoughts and wishes, I hope you all had a terrific holiday, (we sure did), and for my friends in other countries that don't celebrate Thanksgiving, well...you won't have to listen to us yank's yammering on and on for another year! lol.

The painting is titled, The Party's Over, by Anne Teigen

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

2009-11-23T14:29:00.000-08:00

I am kicking into high gear, got to start the Thanksgiving preparations. This year we will have all five of our children, three of their spouses, and four grandchildren in attendance. Plus my brother and his daughter, and my daughter-in-law's mother and sister. If I'm counting right, that's eighteen. Whew.

This will be the first Thanksgiving without my dad. He passed away last December. I will be thinking of him as I set about putting things together. Dad was quite a cook, and he loved Thanksgiving. He always stood at the head of the table and made a toast and said a little prayer, peppered with Irish sayings.

I'll have lots of help in the kitchen. And after dinner we'll play games and make room for dessert.

I wish you all a wonderful holiday, full of good food and company. Much love, Elizabeth.

DREAM

2009-11-19T12:11:00.000-08:00

I love Thursdays. I know, what a odd day of the week to fall in love with. But I've always likened how Thursday feels (for me anyway) to the experience when you've crested the top of the roller coaster and are feeling the exhilaration of heading back down. Whoosh--doesn't that feel wonderful? Friday night is so close, and the weekend will soon be here. Anyway, Happy Thursday.

I have a few things on my mind. Number one, my wedding anniversary is coming up and I always forget about it because we got married right before Thanksgiving and I'm always so busy with the holiday preparations, I forget. It's reverse in our family, The Husband never forgets. This year I am going to remember. I'm so lucky to have him and I don't want the poor guy to get the impression that I don't love him with a capital L. Still haven't decided what to do for him yet. Any cool ideas out there bloggy friends?

Yesterday, out of the blue, I got the urge to paint. I used to be half-assed good at painting. Both my mother and father were artists, so I come by it honestly. I had the good sense to know that I was a better writer than I was a painter. I played piano for a while but stopped taking lessons so I might concentrate on writing classes. In my twenties I decided that if I was going to be raising kids and working in the design field, I had better choose between writerly ambitions, my true love and stronger talent, and painting, because God only knew, time for such pursuits was damn near impossible to come by . So I stopped painting. Gardening is another love of mine, but when I quit designing to write full time, and we sold our house with the garden it took me twenty years to cultivate, (52 rose bushes, I had a chocolate rose!) I stopped gardening as well. A girl can only spread herself so thin. Yesterday, when I got the urge to run out to the art store and stock up on paints and canvases, I stopped dead in my tracks and said, "Self. No way! Finish the story you're working on!" And I did.

What have you given up for your dream? Or, did you give up your dream?

Please note: I lost the name of the artist that painted "Cocktail Hour" posted above, isn't it exquisite? If I couldn't paint like that I wasn't having any of it!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Call To Action

2009-11-18T11:41:00.000-08:00

UPDATE: I woke up this morning with my right eye glued shut by icky goo. My throat's raw, my nose is a leaky red mess, and my head throbs, despite Tylenol cold tablets. I don't care if I'm sick, I'm back at work. No more lounging about for this girl!

So, how much thought do you give to verbs? I know, (is she really going there?) Yes, I am. Because, I caught myself using gurunds too often. For more info, check out, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerund. Now that you've refreshed your knowledge about what the heck a gerund is, you should do your best to avoid over-using them. Less ing, more action!

Verbs move the story along. Hattie didn't just FEEL ANGRY. Hattie ENGAGES IN BEHAVIOR TO SHOWCASE JUST HOW ANGRY SHE IS.

Always use strong verbs. Many editors recommend counting verbs, they suggest we go through our work and circle them. Check to see if you've used exactly the precise verb needed.

Matt walks briskly to make the bus because he always leaves the house late. SHOULD BE CHANGED TO: Matt often leaves the house late and is forced to sprint to catch the bus on time. (Sprint says in one stronger word what walks briskly says in two.) MO BETTER!

Think visually. It's fine to get inside a character's head, but you've heard this over and over, SHOW DON'T TELL. Us writer's (mere mortals that we are) fall into bad habits. Verbs propel the reader through the story. We need to increase our verb use, and we need to use the strongest verb to convey what's happening. Sounds easy, it's not. Careful editing is time consuming!

Oh crap. Just one more thing to worry about, right? If you do nothing else today, go through a few paragraphs you've written, and be brave and ditch those gerunds and adverbs. You won't be sorry.

Under The Weather

2009-11-17T11:24:00.000-08:00

Here to report, I am officially sick. I caught the flu. I tried my best not to, (washing hands and/or using hand sanitizer as if I were Howard Hughes's twin sister.) I caught the plain-old-ordinary-run-of-the-mill-garden-variety sort. But, I don't care what they say, the flu in any disguise is beyond miserable. Runny nose, sneezing, coughing, sore throat, scratchy ear canals, and on top of the bargain, my right eye is all red and swollen. I'm up and hobbling around today, but yesterday I only got out of bed to use the bathroom. The Husband has been extremely attentive. What a doll, he made chicken soup from scratch, kept me in Kleenex, brought me fizzy water and Tylenol cold capsules. Let's hope this doesn't last too long. It hurts to look at the computer screen. God forbid! I'll try to visit some of your blogs today, but if you don't see me, you'll know I succumbed to the siren call of my sleigh bed! I snapped a picture so you could see how irresistible that darn bed truly is. Why bother to make it when you're going to climb back in? See the pile of used tissues (ew, gross) and my Kindle? (Another illustration of my reluctance to put this house in order, I haven't hung a thing on the empty wall over the bed yet.) Got to curl up with a good book when you're sick, I'm reading, Pilgrims by Elizabeth Gilbert, a short story collection I highly recommend by the author of, Eat, Pray, Love.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

I Leap

2009-11-13T16:27:00.000-08:00

~~ Living is a form of not being sure, not knowing what next or how. The moment you know how, you begin to die a little. The artist never entirely knows. We guess. We may be wrong, but we take leap after leap in the dark. ~~ Agnes De Mille

I won’t say every single time I sit down to write I’m forced to bat away pesky insecurities (wouldn’t that sound puny?) but I will say this, on off days I am forced to confront out and out fear. Fear that I’ll make an idiot out of myself, fear that nobody will ever choose my book over another, fear that I will have forgotten how to string sentences together to make paragraphs that tell a story worthy of spent time and effort.

If we are not willing to risk doing something badly we will never produce anything worthwhile as artists. We procrastinate and find shelter when we attempt to avoid running the risk of failure, don’t we? In times gone by there was no such thing as the Internet to distract us, but there was always something, always something to temp us away from the typewriter or canvas. Not to mention all those tiresome responsibilities and chores. How might I ever overcome that self-doubting-Thomas-of-a-nagging-voice?

I always start with an idea. But, hasn’t this idea been used in one form or another, over and over again? My mother used to tell me, "Elizabeth, there's nothing new under the sun." She loathed the term old-fashioned, liked to point out how each new generation feels they have the market on sex/etc. cornered. When in fact, it’s all been done before. If you don’t agree, check out The Bible and the account of Sodom and Gomorrah. Debauchery is so passé, or is it?

Another quote of substance ~~ Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net. ~~ Pablo Neruda

I aim to allow ideas and inspiration to fall through the figurative net, as they may. I’ll catch and gather those sparks and do my best to turn chaos into order. I aspire to direct them into place on the page in a fashion worthy of the reader’s time and attention. It’s all I can do at the moment.

I snapped this picture of my office this afternoon. We’ve lived here for six months and I haven’t bothered to put this room together, which is so unlike me. I sit amongst a willy-nilly mess, and it does not hinder me in the least. How very odd.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

18 Pounds of Beautiful Baby Flesh

2009-11-11T10:52:00.000-08:00

I've been MIA from my blog the last couple of days. My daughter and her husband are moving so I'm baby sitting my six month old granddaughter. As I look after her, I'm wondering, how did I give birth naturally, (no drugs--no stitches), and raise five kids? The enormity of the thing hits me over the head and I marvel at my younger self. I truly do. I had boundless energy. All those children to care for, and I used to garden like a maniac, redecorate the house every third year or so--top to bottom, I managed to run several businesses, and still had time to romance The Husband. Raising children is a job for the younger set. I couldn't, or wouldn't want to do it now. My arm muscles are KILLING me, after one lousy day of carting eighteen pounds of beautiful baby flesh around, (she has a cold and isn't happy to be put down right now.) Wish me well, I only have about 10 hrs to go!

I snapped the above picture of her when I got her interested in a set of plastic measuring spoons yesterday.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Who's Calling?

2009-11-08T12:18:00.000-08:00

I sure would like to know who’s calling and hanging up on me! Last night, the first crank call came in just as I reached that pleasing limbo state between consciousness and sleep—I was so rattled! Then, this morning the shrill ring of the kitchen phone, right at the crucial moment when I went to flip my egg over-easy, causing me to break the yoke. I answered the phone, meantime the broken yolk cooked all hard in the hot pan, and I like them runny. On the third call, the culprit rang my BlackBerry. I was driving down Sunset Boulevard, and answered despite the new law, which forbids a person from talking in a car without a headset. I kept saying hello over and over, like an idiot, not realizing it was the same jerk. Nobody answered. Just air. From one of those restricted numbers—the worst. Good thing some diligent cop eager to write a ticket didn’t spot me holding that BlackBerry to my ear.

Could it be that guy I met at the party the other night? No way, we obviously hit it off. He said I was exactly what he was looking for, and then asked for my number. Why on earth would he go through all the trouble of calling, just to hang up?

It might be that ghastly Chelsea Topper. The woman I’ve repeatedly snubbed, the tub of lard that recently joined my power-walking group. Her cheery inquisitiveness is beyond annoying. I hate it when she asks if I’d like to tag along to charity functions that I could never be the least bit interested in, when she pesters me to tell her where I buy my clothes and rudely asks how much I paid. Tacky questions that I give the wrong answers to. I don’t want to show up and find that frumpy woman wearing the same outfit as me! Anyway, it’s not Chelsea’s style to keep her mouth shut. It can’t be her!

Maybe it’s Gloria Smythe from work. I’m sure she’s more than a little fed up with me because I continue to outshine her on a daily basis. Since she’s my boss with access to my file and telephone numbers—that would explain a lot. It hasn’t escaped my attention how totally jealous Gloria is about all the attention others in the office give me because they prefer my company to hers. I’m always invited out for lunch and for drinks after hours, while she sits alone at her computer doing God only knows what. It just might be her.

My big sister is perfectly capable of this kind of behavior. I shouldn’t rule her out either. Clare wouldn’t be above picking up the phone, dialing my number, and hanging up just for the heck of it. It’s her mission in life to poke holes through my supremacy in the sibling pecking order. I’ve always been a thorn in her side, since the day I was born. It’s not my fault that I’m Daddy’s little girl. That I turned out to be four inches taller and at least twenty-five pounds thinner than she is. It’s not anybody’s fault but her own, (my son’s an entertainment lawyer with a lovely high-rise condo in Century City), while her children are a pair of losers with a capital L. Her daughter’s practically a crack whore out in Yucca Valley, and her son mows lawns and trims trees for a living out in The Valley somewhere. No wonder she’s bitter.

I don’t know what I’m going to do if this keeps up, I really don’t. It’s a terrible thing when I answer that ring and meet dead silence on the other end of the line, a terrible, terrible thing. I’m barely able to tolerate this quiet house. Since my husband had a mid-life crisis, (I call it a nervous breakdown), and gave up his career as a TV commercial director to dump me for Jesus and move down to El Salvador to become some kind of goody-two-shoes missionary, I’ve been forced to live alone up here in the hills above the city. I leave the radio on at night. It’s just too damn scary without some kind of noise in the background besides crickets chirping and the furnace going on and off and water pipes banging and clanging. I think I’ll sell this drafty old house, (even though it's a perfect example of early Los Angeles glamor and was once owned by film actress Etta Dawson.) I'll buy a high-rise condo in my son’s building, where I can feel safe.

Whoever’s making these calls is diabolical, not a good person at all. They’re trying to throw me off, trying to scare me. It’ll take a lot more that a few hang up calls to freak me out, I can tell you that. A woman living alone is such a target, and I am getting older, but am still extremely attractive. This isn’t funny at all, the idea that someone is having a good old time at my expense. I suppose I could change my numbers. But that would be an inconvenience—so why should I? I don’t intend to give this prankster the satisfaction. I just won’t.

The next time the phone rings I’m going to scream BUG OFF ASSHOLE into the receiver at the top of my lungs. That ought to fix who’s calling!

(A work of fiction, based on a client from my past--not autobiographical by any means!)

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

TGIF

2009-11-06T09:43:00.000-08:00

It's been a busy week. As I told you all, my daughter Alexis turned 21 and we went to PF Changs for dinner, and she ordered a fancy cocktail. I'm afraid it was dark in the restaurant but you can still kind of make out her face, glass in hand. My oldest daughter came and stayed for a few days, so I got a shot of Brynn eating her first bit of rice cereal, and in her outfit that she wore to dinner one night. Have a stupendous weekend everyone. We're off to L.A. to handle some business today.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Pssst...

2009-11-05T01:10:00.000-08:00

Karen keeps a secret. Not a dirty little secret. Not one of those garden-variety-I-fooled-around-on-my-husband secrets. Not an I-had-an-abortion-and-never-told-anybody-and-live-with-the-guilt secret. No, her secret is vile and deep-rooted. The dank subterranean pull of the lie bleeds heavier with each passing year. Karen lives on borrowed time because it’s impossible to keep something buried forever. There’s no way around it, someday the past will show up unannounced. Morning after morning comes the light and she wonders if the truth will visit that day. Her ugly deeds exposed—on display—out in the open. Karen plays the good wife and mother beneath the shade provided by a seed planted long ago, she feigns bliss in a make believe world under a tree rooted in hell.

You just read the first paragraph from a WIP about a woman with a terrible secret. I thought I was writing a short story, but it may be better suited to a novel format. I’m fascinated by secrets. When we’re younger we tend to keep more secrets. But, as we get older we tend to think—oh who cares anymore! Who gives a rat's ass about what people think? The truth will set you free. At least that’s how I feel about it. When someone says to me, “I have something to tell you, but you can’t tell anyone I told you.” I respond with, “Stop. No way. Don’t tell me. I don’t want the responsibility. If you don’t want anyone to know, keep it to yourself.” I truly feel, that if a person doesn’t want something out in the world, then they shouldn’t put it out there.

Here’s another wrinkle. Do sociopaths keep secrets? Or do they possess the ability to just eliminate past horrible deeds from their memory banks? Their minds become a chalkboard wiped clean. After such maniacs are captured, they’re questioned extensively, and still they won’t come clean with the truth. I’ve heard them described as being totally void of guilt. They claim that sociopaths don’t possess a conscience.

I suppose anyone that keeps the truth hidden from view could be considered a con artist of sorts. Why don’t liars come clean? Teenagers are really bad for this; they just won’t confess all that easily. They can really get themselves into a jam by sneaking around and lying. I read that teen-agers brains aren’t fully developed, so they quite often lack proper judgment. Grown-ups often fall into that category as well. We know better but act atrociously anyway.

Families often have secrets, like the Kennedy’s with poor unfortunate Rosemary. Do you keep secrets? What’s your favorite story featuring a secret, or secrets? Remember Chinatown? What Happened to Baby Jane? How about Jane Eyre? That Mr. Rochester, did he have a secret!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Happy Birthday Alexis!

2009-11-03T14:48:00.000-08:00

Today is my youngest daughter's 21st birthday! We're going out to celebrate. It's all about cake and champagne. Her real party will be next weekend; tonight's just for the family. We're very proud of our recently graduated fashion designer. She's already working on TV shows and commercials! (That's her in her Day of the Dead Makeup!)

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

In Praise of Bookstores

2009-11-02T16:05:00.000-08:00

No big surprise, I love to hang out in bookstores. Luckily, the Husband does too. The picture of the tree is one we took right outside Barnes & Noble the other night. The streetlight made it pop, I'm not so sure the photo does the glowing tree justice. When I visit cities I love to check out bookstores, such as: Powell's Books in Portland Oregon, (my hometown), City Lights in San Francisco, and Munro books in Victoria B.C. (my sister lives up there.) What's your favorite bookstore? Is it a plus when they serve coffee, cookies, cheesecake?

Dog Day Halloween

2009-10-31T12:14:00.000-07:00

So wrong but so amusing, so many things funny are, aren't they?

HAPPY HALLOWEEN BLOGGY PALS! LOVE YOU ONE AND ALL.

A friend (hi friend if u read this ;-) sent these funny shots to me and I just had to share!

A Job Well Done!

2009-10-30T13:48:00.001-07:00

Our yard project is almost finished, we still have some plants to add and whatnot, but the sod's in. I'm happy and the dogs are ecstatic, they couldn't wait to pee and poo all over the lovely new lawn.

The bad part is, our nineteen year old son, (he's been our laborer), will be returning to our other house tonight, and we're going to miss him. The fridge and pantry will return to be stocked with food that doesn't disappear, and he won't be making us any exotic ice cream. While he was here we went to see Where The Wild Things Are, (his name is Max), and he claimed the movie did not ruin the book or suck at all. We took him for all you can eat sushi, and I had to cut him off. At six foot two, with two very long hollow legs, he can eat and eat and eat the establishment right out of house and home. We also took him over to Wahoo's fish tacos, but he still prefers Chipotle's over-sized burritos.

The Husband and I will be staying home tomorrow, even though my niece is throwing a big Halloween bash. With four dogs and a neighborhood of ghouls and goblins roaming door to door we don't have any choice. We'll hang out on the porch and hand out candy. We'll each carve a pumpkin. (I'm a big kid, gotta have a jack-0-lantern burning. And I'll have to make due with the pictures my kids will take Saturday night at the party. Hope you all have a safe spooky Halloween.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Witch!

2009-10-29T15:08:00.000-07:00

In honor of Halloween I decided to explore the subject of witches/bitches, depending on your viewpoint. I suppose I should start off by saying, I do have my own inner bitch, most women do, don’t they? She comes out when I’m overtired, stressed, or just plain mad. She’s not an in your face bitch, but more grumpy and sulky. If you try to hurt a member of my family, she transforms into the-mother-bear-variety. That said—I do have empathy for other women when their inner bitch materializes, just as long as that inner bitch isn’t predominant and unrestrained.

My mother had trouble keeping her bitch under control. She had an argumentative streak. Her need to be right was ubiquitous. Anyone foolish enough to get in the way of Mom’s delusion of importance would become ready fodder for spiteful retaliation. If you didn’t appreciate her vision of the world—look out—step back. Better yet, make a run for it.

I know an award-winning bitch, one that deserves the-bitch-of-the-decade award. She’s sneaky, underhanded, and diabolical. I’ve witnessed the way she ruined many lives over the years. I have absolutely nothing to do with her anymore. Wouldn’t be caught in her sphere, not for love nor money. Uh-uh. I won’t name her, hat’s not necessary. But, suffice it to say, if I ever decided to base a character on the bitch, that character would be deemed too one-dimensional. I can hear it now, the criticism would sound like something like this: Elizabeth Bradley’s villain, a woman with long dark hair and eyes and an even darker heart, is so hell-bent on wreaking havoc on loved ones, you can’t help but wonder why she hasn’t been expelled from their lives. It’s hard to believe anybody would put up with such a heartless self-centered woman. Although not quite evil enough to be imprisoned, the vile creature is not good enough to be deserving of the reader’s pity or attention.

Do you know a bitch? Are you a bitch? Has a bitch/witch ever put a spell on you?

My youngest daughter carved the pumpkin in the picture above. Won’t it make a spooky Jack-o-lantern?

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Free Stuff Rocks!

2009-10-28T15:00:00.000-07:00

I won a book over at Kirti's blog!

Karma and other Stories by Rishi Reddi came in the mail today and I'm so excited to read it. Go over and check out Kirti's blog when you get the chance.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Where Am I? And What Do You Look Like?

2009-10-27T12:42:00.000-07:00

Does your protagonist have blonde, black, red, or brown hair? Is he/she tall or short, fat or skinny, pimply or clear skinned? What a plethora of choices: athletic, sickly, handicapped, bull-headed, clumsy, elegant—oh the possibilities! How does an author choose?

Varied genres handle the task of portraying characters in differing ways. Chick lit is big on meticulous description—right down to depicting outfits and shoes and hairstyles and the like. I don’t read YA, but imagine description must play an important role, as adolescents and teenagers tend to be obsessed with appearance. When it comes to more literary fare, some schools of thought recommend a light-handed approach when it comes to portraying the main character. Don’t bog the reader down with limitations, they say, let the mind's eye supply necessary details. Save in-depth depictions for villains or secondary characters. Do you follow these rules? Or are rules meant to be broken?

And then there’s the setting, or settings. You’ve got the country, the city, the suburbs, uptown, downtown, under the bridge, skyscraper penthouses, tenements, golf course condos, farmhouses. Are we in a foreign country, local, staying put, or on the road? Don’t start off in one locale and then halfway through the book switch gears—that’s a big no, no. If we’re on the move, make that clear from the beginning, or end the book with a change of scene. Don’t confuse the reader. Change of scene must be intricately tied to the story, don’t put your protagonist on the move for no good reason. More rules. More to think about.

Below are some fine examples of description by authors one can only hope to aspire to one day.

John Irving describes Garp's mother in The World According To Garp:

Jenny was twenty-two. She had dropped out of college almost as soon as she'd begun, but she had finished her nursing-school program at the head of her class and she enjoyed being a nurse. She was an athletic-looking young woman who always had high color in her cheeks; she had dark, glossy hair and what her mother called a mannish way of walking (she swung her arms), and her rump and hips were so slender and hard that, from behind, she resembled a young boy. In Jenny's opinion, her breasts were too large; she thought the ostentation of her bust made her look "cheap and easy."

And, can you imagine putting the reader into a mind of a dog while also preparing the reader for the far north setting of the story with any better skill than Jack London displays in The Call of the Wild? I sure can't.

Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide- water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost.

One of my favorite authors of all time, Anne Tyler, sets the scene in the main character's family home in The Accidental Tourist, with a light touch, yet establishing a strong sense of purpose.

When his brothers came home from work, the house took on a relaxed, relieved atmosphere. Rose drew the living room curtains and lit a few soft lamps. Charles and Porter changed into sweaters. Macon started mixing his special salad dressing. He believed that if you pulverized the spices first with a marble mortar and pestle, it made all the difference. The others agreed that no one else's dressing tasted as good as Macon's. "Since you've been gone," Charles told him, "we've had to buy that bottled stuff from the grocery store." He made it sound as if Macon had been gone a few weeks or so - as if his entire marriage had been just a brief trip elsewhere.

Here's the great Willa Cather's opening for O Pioneers. Places you right smack dab down in Nebraska.

One January day, thirty years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown away. A mist of fine snowflakes was curling and eddying about the cluster of low drab buildings huddled on the gray prairie, under a gray sky. The dwelling-houses were set about haphazard on the tough prairie sod; some of them looked as if they had been moved in overnight, and others as if they were straying off by themselves, headed straight for the open plain. None of them had any appearance of permanence, and the howling wind blew under them as well as over them. The main street was a deeply rutted road, now frozen hard, which ran from the squat red railway station and the grain "elevator" at the north end of the town to the lumber yard and the horse pond at the south end. On either side of this road straggled two uneven rows of wooden buildings; the general merchandise stores, the two banks, the drug store, the feed store, the saloon, the post-office. The board sidewalks were gray with trampled snow, but at two o'clock in the afternoon the shopkeepers, having come back from dinner, were keeping well behind their frosty windows. The children were all in school, and there was nobody abroad in the streets but a few rough-looking countrymen in coarse overcoats, with their long caps pulled down to their noses. Some of them had brought their wives to town, and now and then a red or a plaid shawl flashed out of one store into the shelter of another. At the hitch-bars along the street a few heavy work-horses, harnessed to farm wagons, shivered under their blankets. About the station everything was quiet, for there would not be another train in until night.

I'd love to hear what descriptions in fiction you find most memorable or totally blew you away.

Conflict

2009-10-26T13:48:00.000-07:00

The Husband is pissing me off. We argue once in a blue moon. Currently we're having a disagreement and the resulting discord is causing me to draw back. I’m letting him have his way, even though he’s wrong. No. Really. He is wrong. But I am no mood to push back. I’ve been pushing back all my life in one way or another, and I’m weary. For some reason having my way just isn’t all that important to me anymore. A blaze that once burned bright is reduced to a little campfire. Encircling stones to protect the endangered flames, I sit quiet and wait for my spirit to return, searching the dancing colors well into the night, under the blue moon.

Conflict—there will be no story without it.

Do you enjoy a good fight?

Are you a pussycat?

Would you ever back down even if you felt you were right?

Do your characters act like you, or are they stronger/weaker?

Is it a conscious decision on your part to add conflict to your stories, or does conflict just appear organically?

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

LIGHT BULB MOMENT

2009-10-25T11:50:00.000-07:00

It’s Sunday, so let’s talk about inspiration. Here’s Webster’s definition of the word:

in·spi·ra·tion
- a breathing in, as of air into the lungs: inhaling
- an inspiring or being inspired mentally or emotionally
- an inspiring influence; any stimulus to creative thought or action
- an inspired idea, action, etc...
- a prompting of something to be written or said
THEO—a divine influence upon human beings, as that resulting in the writing of the scriptures.

Two great Jack London quotes:

~~ You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.

~~ I wrote a thousand words every day.

I am a walking light bulb. Ideas, I got a million of ‘em. What comes first though, does the inspiration spur the work, or visa-versa? For me—it happens both ways. If I’m not inspired I make myself sit down anyway. I usually find that my motor kicks in and I’m off. It’s a rare occurrence when I don’t kick into gear. Not that I haven’t been sidetracked. The blogging gig, it’s a time-consuming enterprise, to be sure. I’ve got to come up with an idea, write my own blog, and visit other blogs, then there’s the links and so on and so forth. Pretty soon a couple/three hours have gone by. I can hardly believe how the time flies online.

It’s a cold hard fact, learning about writing won’t make someone a good writer—writing makes a good writer. You’ve got to make the time. You’ve got to write your guts out. Then you have to throw most of what you’ve written away. And then you have to sit your weary self down and write some more.

It’s not lost on me, certain skeptical people out in the real world think I’m nuts because I spend so much time in front of this computer screen. For me it’s a portal to other worlds, not only the world of my own over-active imagination, but other's worlds too. I get to connect with other writers and readers. What an honor! That you come and read what I've written is always a source of great joy. I value your visits more than you will ever know. And, I learn something everyday from visiting all your blogs. Every single day. Like breathing out and breathing in. Thanks for being there. Know this, you are all are a constant source of inspiration, varied and nuanced.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

You Scream I Scream

2009-10-24T12:49:00.000-07:00

My nineteen year old son has been staying with us while he works on clearing out the mess of ugly overgrown plants so we can put down some sod in the backyard. He decided he wanted to make ice cream, (it got hot again and he was out there dreaming of milkshakes while he toiled away in the hot sun), so we went to Kitchen Fantasy, (a nifty store if ever there was one), and purchased an ice cream maker. He's become a mad scientist! The first batch was chocolate hazelnut, made with Nutella, and roasted hazelnuts, yummy. Last night we went over to his brother's house and he made coffee ice cream, (he used Starbucks new Via microground coffee for flavoring), with brownie bits, (gluten free so I could eat them), and slivered almond sprinkles. Next on the menu: pomagranate sorbet! Have a fabulous weekend I know we will!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Coffee House People

2009-10-22T14:38:00.000-07:00

For those of you that don’t already know, (I’ve written a bit about it here), I used to own a coffee house in Southern California. I sold the business though, and the new proprietor ran it into the ground. Now, it’s a Starbucks.

Owning such an establishment suited me to a “T”. I loved everything about running and operating the place, especially the cast of characters that flocked to the long bar I had built. I hired my two nieces and other family members and friends. We literally had a full on European-style espresso bar where clientele could watch the barista at work.

Today I’ll tell you about a strange ranger named Paul; he used to come in at least three times a week for breakfast. I knew to make his hash browns extra-extra crispy. He drank our JOLT! Blend coffee straight up, cup after cup, with no sugar and no cream. As time went by Paul grew comfortable and became more outgoing. One day he surprised my niece when he dropped by in the afternoon and ordered a smoothie. More talkative than usual, he informed her that he had been in the CIA, but was now retired. His name wasn’t Paul at all. He had been sworn to secrecy by the powers that be, he must keep his true identity under wraps, and consequently hadn’t seen a single-family member in over thirty years. He had no friends. No people. It was a lonely life.

When my niece told me what he’d said, including the revelation that he’d been responsible for the deaths of many an evildoer out to do our country harm, I told her he was surely nothing but a crackpot. “He’s just an old guy trying to impress a pretty young girl,” I insisted. “I think old Paul’s read too many spy thrillers.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

Paul, I suspected, knew that I would have presented a more skeptical audience, because in the morning when I was within earshot he never talked about the CIA, or mercenaries, or Russian spies, or any sort of subterfuge. He saved his tales of intrigue and terror for the afternoons, after I had left to pick my kids up from school. My two nieces and their friends made for rapt and gullible listeners.

“Auntie,” my niece divulged, in the most concerned voice, “Paul has stomach cancer. It’s spreading too.”

“No way!” I blurted out. “He wouldn’t be able to drink all that coffee or eat those extra-extra crispy hash browns the way he does.”

“Why are you always putting him down? Why don’t you like him?” I’d hurt her feelings and I hadn’t meant to.

The next day I whipped up Paul’s breakfast, and after serving him I took a seat on the next stool over. He told me that he was preparing to travel to Mexico, to a spa where they cured seriously ill people with great success and regularity. For a man with stomach cancer he didn’t look all that sick. He was thin, but not gaunt. His coloring was fine. I felt certain he was full of baloney and making stuff up to gain sympathy and attention.

Meanwhile, the girls were growing closer and closer to their new friend. They went over to his little house for dinner, where he served them lobster lasagna and homemade garlic bread. At the end of the evening, as they were preparing to depart, he informed them that he was leaving for Mexico the next day, and…if he didn’t come back he had left a will with his lawyer stipulating that he was leaving the two of them everything he owned. Naturally, they broke out in tears and assured Paul that they just knew he would get better.

When my nieces told me about what he’d said, I kept my reservations about the credulity of his trip and the reasons for it. Positive he was merely going on a vacation and playing the sympathy card to the hilt.

Paul returned a month later. Pronounced he was cured and cancer free. He kept right on eating crispy hash browns and drinking black coffee and telling his tales. All these years later I hear he’s still alive and well.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Ladders

2009-10-21T12:22:00.000-07:00

See the red picture? That's how your non-writing family and friends live their lives. They face a ladder leading where they want to go and simply climb up rung by rung.

See the yellow Picture? You writers reach that much-sought-after summit, after you've begun the book, introduced your characters, added in the spice of complications, action, conflict. Now you reach the climax at at long last! You stand at the precipice, feeling high on power and accomplishment.

But, you haven't written the hardest part yet kiddo. You face that final descent, the reader must encounter an engaging but believable turning point. And, you absolutely must create that crucial final suspense before bringing them home to a satisfying ending.

(I won't even bother going into the fact that you must re-climb the ladder for re-writes and editing, God knows how many times. That goes without saying.)

When, at last you've finished, it's whew-I-did-it-jubilation-time! Yay! But hold on now, look ahead, you face another daunting ladder leading up. You must find readers. That's the point, finding willing souls to read what you've written. Mercy, now that's another whole ball of wax. Hope you have strong legs.

I want to let you know I am a guess blogger over at K.'s place. She's a wonderful person, a doctor, a mother, and she finds time to write and post Fine Art Fridays on top of the bargain. Here's the link, K.'s Blog.

Link Alert: to full explanation of plot in fiction, if you're interested in that kind of thing, a refresher course never hurts. :-)

For The Love of McCorkle

2009-10-20T13:50:00.000-07:00

I can't imagine how it happened, or should I say didn't happen? But, I had never heard of Jill McCorkle until I was in bed a few nights ago, (where I do the majority of my reading), poking through Amazon on my Kindle, looking for a short story collection of interest. I found Ms. McCorkle's Going Away Shoes and promptly downloaded the first chapter for free. (My favorite part of owning a Kindle.) After reading that incredible first paragraph I thought, who is amazing Jill McCorkle, and why don't I know about her? I bought Going Away Shoes and read it in two nights. Then I bought, Creatures of Habit, and the second book was as good as the first. Yay! I just bought her novel, Ferris Beach, and I'll start reading that one tonight. Have you ever done this? Discovered an author and fallen head over heels, so much so, that you read everything they'd written that you could get your hands on?

ABOUT JILL MCCORKLE
Jill McCorkle is the author of eight previous books—three story collections and five novels—five of which have been selected as New York Times Notable Books. She is the winner of the New England Book Award, the John Dos Passos Prize for Excellence in Literature, and the North Carolina Award for Literature. She teaches writing at North Carolina State University and lives with her husband in Hillsborough, North Carolina.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

The World According to Flexible Old Me

2009-10-19T14:57:00.000-07:00

I was listening to a woman this weekend and was struck by how adamantly she voiced her fervent preferences to a room full of strangers. Opinions flowed from her mouth in a steady stream without any constraint. Opinions, such as: she would only EVER drink red wine—never white! Huh? While I will admit, there are many lovely reds; I could never discount a nice glass of chilled Chardonnay, or a crisp glass of Pinot Grigio on a summer day, no way.

Nobody could EVER convince her to travel outside The United States of America. EVER. For any reason. Huh? Not even Canada? And she’d deny herself The British Isles, France, Italy, Africa, Australia, and the Far East? Just because she wouldn’t feel safe? Hey, I don’t feel that all-fired safe in certain parts of L.A., and I still venture there. Isn’t playing it safe an illusion anyway?

Her most outlandish statement—the one that I couldn’t help but respond to—she made mention of visiting a friend of a friend’s house in Pasadena, a Mid-Century home above the Arroyo Seco. “Why,” she said, scowling as if she were discussing decomposing garbage, “anyone with so much money would buy THAT monstrosity is beyond me. I mean those people could afford any number of the historical homes available in the area, like a Spanish stucco, or a nice craftsman, a Victorian, anything but that modern, boring, stark, cold box.

I took a breath, considered keeping my nose out of the conversation, but wouldn’t you know it, I ignored my inner Miss Manners and said, “But…I could see why they’d choose Mid-Century. In fact, I know The Husband and I would have a hard time making our minds up. We have such a great appreciation of so many differing types of architecture. I guess we’d have to make our decision based on setting, location, and personal fit, rather than what particular style the house was. Well…that is…I’m going with the premise that cost would not present such limitations. Wouldn’t that be something?”

She looked at me as if I had said I might move into a trailer park, (and what if I had?) “The thing is,” I said, continuing on, in an attempt to drive my point home, “I wouldn’t EVER say never about moving anywhere. The older I get, the more open-minded I’ve become. I’m more flexible.”

“Not me,” she said adamantly, her mouth reduced to a tight, thin, albeit glossy line. I felt kind of bad. I could have kept my thoughts to myself. I could have let her hold court and keep her illusion of how it should be intact. My response had triggered a deluge of emotion. She threw her head back in defiance and declared, “Sorry. But, I know exactly what I want and I won’t take anything less. I know what I like and I’m not about to waste any time. I stay focused. It’s important to be focused! That’s how I see it.”

Perhaps her use of the word focused was inappropriate? Maybe she meant fixed? If anything, I am a focused human being, but ultimately flexible. I remain open to re-interpretation when it comes to pursuing and bringing to fruition goals and desires. My objectives aren’t set in stone.

This applies to writing too. I begin with an outline. I almost always know exactly who my main character, or secondary characters are, and what the events necessary to set the story in motion will be, and I usually know the outcome, but I’m willing to let events unfold that I didn’t anticipate. I won’t hold the plot or characters to my previous vision just because I am too fixed to see beyond my original framework. I have to say—some of my best stuff materializes when I least expect it. Why fight the feeling? The best part about writing, (especially with a computer), is that delete key. Just because I come up with something doesn’t mean I have to keep it. In fact, sometimes the unexpected leads me somewhere I wouldn’t have ventured otherwise. The story is a journey, and I’m willing to travel down side roads, just as long as I get to a desirable, if not stupendous destination.

(That’s a picture of my eyeball at the top of the page, sans make-up (sorry guys), taken way up close with my cell phone just now, because I knew it would come out all blurry. I wanted to illustrate the focus/fixed theme with a picture. You know, the world as I see it kind of a thing? All imperfect and ambiguous, liquid and full of possibilities.)

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Breakfast in Bed -- Not for me!

2009-10-17T11:44:00.000-07:00

I wish I'd lingered amongst the pillows and covers to enjoy a luxurious breakfast in bed. But, instead it's time to clean the joint. And then, on to cooking. Got family and friends coming for the weekend, so must hop to it. Polish everything up, get out the tablecloths and candlesticks, whip up some delectable delectables.

Fall?

2009-10-15T19:42:00.000-07:00

The picture of the palm trees is what it looked like outside here today. The other two photos fit my idealized vision of what fall is supposed to look like.

I toiled away on my WIP today. Now it's time to get busy reading all your blogs. Thanks for following me by the way. Every comment you leave matters greatly.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Paragraphs and Figs

2009-10-14T22:06:00.000-07:00

I entered literary agent Nathan Bransford's first paragraph contest today after reading about it on Twitter. I fretted over which first paragraph from the file on my desktop might be catchy enough to gain attention. Then I rewrote the one I chose, over and over and over again. What do you think of writing contests? Do you enter them? Did you enter this one? Last I checked, Nathan Bransford had over 2000 entries. Imagine that. 4:00 p.m. tomorrow is the deadline. He says he's going to read all the entries. I sat and read through them for about two hours, and my eyes were beyond bleary.

I made baked figs with toasted pecans and vanilla bean organic blue agave syrup for desert tonight. Yummy, but rich. The Husband relaxed in his favorite chair and sipped a bit of cognac with his figs, I washed mine down with Sleepytime tea. Hope you had a good evening too!

Happy Tuesday!

2009-10-13T09:25:00.000-07:00

I'm working today, no time to blog. But check out the info below, you won't be sorry.

(I posted a picture of my granddaughter, just a little eye candy.)

You are cordially invited to attend an "open house" beginning Wednesday, October 14, in honor of the newly renovated Rose &Thorn Journal: http://www.roseandthornjournal.com

Drop by, sign up for the newsletter, check out the new digs (and blog!), follow us on Twitter and Facebook, leave us your comments/thoughts, and wish us well!

Rose &Thorn is a quarterly literary journal featuring the voices of emerging and established authors, poets and artists.

Now...go enjoy the open bar and appetizer spread!

Angie Ledbetter & Kathryn Magendie
Co-Editor/Publishers
Rose & Thorn Journal

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

The Listener

2009-10-12T12:19:00.000-07:00

Something's weighing heavy on my mind. On Saturday we went to Janice's memorial service. I have written a bit about her here on my blog, go on over and check out her website, and you will see what a remarkable person has just left this earth. After the service we drove down to San Diego to have dinner with friends. We spent the night and on Sunday went to visit my cousin, (I don't see her nearly enough).

I'm struck by how important connections are. So many people showed for Janice they spilled out of the church and onto the sidewalk. Me and The Husband drove a good distance to get there and ended up standing just outside the doorway. Many people spoke. A thread ran through each person's observations, Janice was a woman that connected: with her own family, her artist friends, the entire community. She had an unusual gift for connecting with just about everyone she met. How many of us do? Especially writers. I think most of us are introverts. We stay at home and type away much of the time.

Think about it. Do you go out of your way for people? Are you genuine? Will they remember you?

Maybe blogging presents a more comfortable way for us to connect with others. Face it, when you decide to be a writer, you are reaching out, but you're saying what you've got to say with words on paper. There's a separation right there, so the added separation of the Internet isn't a stretch, not really. It's just one more way to get your words, (brought to life sometimes by difficult means), read by others. We are connecting! Yay! Why, we wouldn't have started a blog if we were out and out hermits. I feel better.

It's not that I don't love people. But I'm not one of those that spends lots of time out and about. I'm a homebody, and so is The Husband. We're busy working on our craft, you can here the clickity click of the computer keys. I'm sure my dogs think all humans hunker over glowing monitors. Oh, they see us take breaks, after all we have to eat, go shopping, and we do walk them. Got to get the exercise in.

My point is, I am going to work harder at enriching all my connections. It's time to ditch insecurities, calm the frantic back chatter of the mind, to be in the moment and really see and feel one another. When someone is talking to me, I will not be thinking about how my car needs to be washed, I will stop and listen to them. What they have to say is important. I refuse to ignore a child. How many times has one of your kids been talking to you and you're busy wondering if the chicken you took out of the freezer too late will be thawed out enough to make dinner, (or some equally mundane detail), and you didn't fool them one little bit, did you? They knew. They weren't heard. Janice was a listener. How much better would the world be if we all became listeners?

If you visit Janice's website you'll see her art. People from all over the world buy her pieces to treasure. Her journals are in the Smithsonian. She left bits and pieces of herself behind. She created and created and created. Will you leave bits and pieces of yourself behind? Do you think anybody cares? Make them care. Give them good reason.

(Oh, I know I promised pictures from our short weekend trip, but I was too busy connecting to take any. This is one I did take, of my cousin's little daughter taking a picture of me taking a picture of her. If you saw the movie Little Miss Sunshine, this little girl is a dead ringer for the girl in the movie, sans the chubbiness. And I'm happy to report, we connected.)

Mini Vacations Rock!

2009-10-09T22:02:00.000-07:00

I’m leaving for the weekend. No computers for me, or The Husband! We’re heading for San Diego. Here are some pictures off the Internet, this is where we’ll be staying. And I’ll try to take some pics of my own. I doubt I could capture a torrey pine better than what I've posted though. Hope you all have a great weekend. I know we will!!!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Enough With the Pumpkins Already!

2009-10-08T13:27:00.000-07:00

When autumn arrives all we hear about are pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins! Hey, I love pumpkins and squash and Indian corn as much as the next gal, but let's consider pomegranates.

I was inspired by Lauri Kubuitsile’s photo of her struggling pomegranate tree in her garden over at her blog, Thoughts From Botswana. If you haven’t yet read her blog, pop on over, she’s a terrific writer, and a fascinating woman living in an fascinating country.

You see, I’ve always wanted a pomegranate tree of my own. Did you know that California is the only state here in the U.S. where they grow outside of greenhouses? I didn’t, I just read that today. You will find pomegranates mentioned and depicted in literature and art since ancient times, from Greece to Persia, throughout the Middle East and Asia. Some claim this unusual fruit is capable of curing infections caused by tapeworms and dysentery. The high levels of antioxidants, vitamins, and minerals stave off many illnesses.

Let’s celebrate the fall harvest of this wonderful fruit with a couple of tasty recipes:

This salad is terrific, utilizing another fall fruit available in vast quantities here in Southern California—persimmons:

3 fuyu persimmons, peeled, chopped (1/4 to 1/2 inch pieces), seeds (if any) discarded
3/4 cup pomegranate seeds
1 Granny Smith or Fuji apple, peeled, cored, chopped (1/4 to 1/2 inch pieces)
7-10 leaves fresh mint, thinly sliced crosswise (stack then, then roll them up like a cigar and take slices from the end)
2 teaspoons lemon juice
1 teaspoon honey

METHOD
Gently toss all of the ingredients together.
Serves 4.
Keeps for at least a couple of days in the refrigerator, but best eaten same day it is made.

So, now for a more decadent recipe featuring pomegranates:

Easy Pomegranate Cake

Preheat oven to 350, line 8” square pan with parchment paper

1 cup sifted cake flour
1tsp. Baking powder
2 large eggs
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 cup pomegranate juice

Whisk together cake flour and baking powder and set aside.
In large bowl beat eggs till foamy. Add sugar 1/4 at a time and beat well after each addition until light and fluffy and stiff. Add flour mixture to egg mixture 1/4 at a time, alternating with pomegranate juice. Beat until well combined.

Pour and bake 35 to 40 minutes. Until center springs back when lightly touched. Cool to room temperature. Pull out parchment paper to remove from pan. Frost with favorite cream cheese, or butter cream frosting. Or, simply sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve.

Do you enjoy pomegranates? Were you aware of how good they are for you? Do you use them in cooking?

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Fearless Author?

2009-10-06T15:50:00.000-07:00

My mother was a difficult woman, to say the least. She was extremely religious, started out a Catholic, but switched over to an organization that would be considered a cult by some Christians. I won’t name her religion of choice; I’m not out to make any enemies. I was the middle child, but in a sense I was also the oldest. My sister is only two years younger than I am, but my brother is eight years older, and he was drafted into the military when I was ten years old. Dad took a job in California. Mom promised we would move south to join him when the school year ended. But, she wrote my father a Dear John letter, telling him that she intended to stay put. Dad didn’t buy into her newfound belief system, and he was put out. After that, it was just Mom and us two girls living in Oregon.

We moved out of our three-story house on a tree-lined street and into a crappy apartment in a complex full of single mom’s with troubled kids and teens. I started looking after kids and through the years became the babysitting queen of the complex. At one point, (try to understand, this was in the late sixties), I earned about ninety dollars a week. That was a lot of dough for a kid. I spent my loot on clothes and shoes. But, I did manage to save enough to fly down to see my dad in California.

When I was sixteen, Mom decided to move by her family, way up north in Canada. Once we were settled, not only did my sister and I have our religious mother breathing down our teenaged necks, we had our Aunt and Uncle, (we lived on their property), and the entire congregation of that one horse town breathing down our necks. My sister was strong and not a people pleaser. She had no problem standing up to my mother and refusing to go to the many meetings we were required to attend weekly. I tried my best to make Mom happy. I thought that if I complied with the strictness, she would finally accept me. Mom loved me, but I just grated on her nerves because she claimed I was just like my father. I guess I am like him. Born that way. Hopeless from the get go.

In the tenth grade, or grade ten, to use the Canadian term, I was chosen to enroll in a special program. My English teacher determined that I was a gifted writer. (I had been writing since the age of seven, in my mind I was going to be the next Jane Austen.) I ran home to tell Mom and met with undeniably vehement disapproval. I had to fight in order to participate in the program. My mother allowed me to enter the program, but made me take all the bookkeeping and business machine courses, because I would surely end up working in an office, just like her. My aspirations to be a writer were at best at pipe dream.

Right up until her death, her voice played in my head every time I sat down to write. What would she think about what I had written? Would she disapprove? And then she passed suddenly, in her chair, in her sleep, her beloved Bible in her lap.

Losing Mom was devastating. I know it wasn’t as heart wrenching for me as it was for my sister, (they were tied to one another emotionally and in proximity much closer), but I had no idea just how strongly I would miss her presence in my life. We talked on the phone, a lot. She would come to visit and we would go out to lunch after sightseeing. (I still get a pang when I see a daughter and her mother out to lunch.) But, I was free! I could write whatever I wanted. I know--when you get right down to it I was always free to write whatever I wanted. But somewhere deep inside I never gave up on trying to please her and would edit myself constantly. I'll go so far as to say that I couldn’t really write honestly at all, until after she was gone.

Do you worry about what others, or that certain someone will think of your material, should you write what’s in your heart? Do voices sound off in your head if you approach certain subjects, or matters that might ruffle feathers? Or, are you a fearless author? If you are one of the brave ones, did you start out that way, or did you learn to throw caution to the wind? Just curious.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley

San Juan Capistrano

2009-10-05T13:28:00.000-07:00

This weekend The Husband decided to take a little detour, as we were speeding down the freeway on our way home after meeting the kids at the airport, he decided to take the Ortega Highway over to the coast. I was bare-knuckling it, I can tell you that much, as we climbed the windy road up and over.

We stopped in at San Juan Capistrano. The mission is Orange County's oldest community. We had an appetizer and a glass of wine at Sarducci's next to The Capistrano Depot, then made our way across the tracks to The Los Rios District. Forty homes remain, three are the original adobe structures that housed workers building the mission. Circa 1700-1800's. The houses are private residences, many house businesses open to the public. There's a museum, nursery, and petting zoo as well. I was intrigued by the giant pepper trees. And, naturally couldn't resist snapping pics of the quaint houses. We didn't visit the mission, as The Husband had visited before, and I've been many times. I am the official tour guide for friends and family, from, Canada, Florida, and Michigan, it seems.

I wanted to stop at the beach but we had to get home, as I'd left the dogs outside and it was getting chilly. Hope you enjoy the pictures I took.

A Little information about the Swallows:

They're on their way.

The famous cliff swallows leave town every year in a swirling mass near the Day of San Juan (October 23), are returning from their winter vacation spot 6,000 miles south in Goya, Corrientes, Argentina

They land at the mission in San Juan, California, on or around St. Joseph's Day, March 19, to the ringing bells of the old church and a crowd of visitors from all over the world who are in town awaiting their arrival and celebrating with a huge fiesta as well as a parade.

Legend has it that the swallows took refuge in the Mission San Juan Capistrano from an irate innkeeper who destroyed their muddy nests. The swallows return to the old ruined church each spring knowing they will be protected within the mission's walls. In fact, the city has taken their safety seriously passing an ordinance against destroying their nests.

So-called "scout swallows" precede the main flock each year by a few days but the majority of the small birds usually arrives on the 19th and begins rebuilding the mud nests that cling to the ruins of the old stone church and throughout the Capistrano Valley

The mission, originally built from 1776–1806, was seriously damaged in 1812 by a deadly earthquake and was never fully rebuilt. It is the seventh in a chain of 21 California Missions all supposedly separated by the distance of a day's walk. The adobe Serra Chapel section of the mission has been rebuilt and it is now the oldest building in California still in use today.

If you come to Southern California, you ought to visit Capistrano. So much to see. I'm adding this town to our list of towns we might consider retiring to!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

2009-10-04T10:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we met our oldest daughter and her husband for breakfast at the airport near their house. They had heard that they served a good breakfast. The food sucked, (the coffee was dishwater), but we all had a good time anyway. How could we go wrong with grand daughter Brynn was in attendance? The Husband was checking out this Lamborghini, I told him to pose as if it were his. (Our Chrysler was nearby, feeling totally insulted.) We're off today as well. Hope you're all having a great weekend.

Inspire Me!

2009-10-02T16:46:00.000-07:00

Let’s talk about inspiring and accomplished mature women.

I’ll start with these prominent four: Meryl Streep, Betsy Johnson, Diane Keaton, and Alice Hoffman.

~~ Meryl Streep -- Meryl’s 60 years old and considered to be the greatest film actresses living today. An amazing fact about Meryl is this; despite her illustrious career she always managed to put her family first. Putting your children at the top of the list in Hollywoodworld, is so unheard of. Hat’s off to Meryl, she’s always been a class act, and the good example.

Meryl Streep quote: We are who we’re going to be when we’re very old, and when we’re very old we’re who we were when we were 8.

~~ Betsy Johnson – Betsey’s 67, can you believe that? This wild child of fashion is still as vibrant and out there as she was in the back in the seventies. I couldn’t find any quotes from Betsey, but I chose her because she’s still going strong creatively. Another fashion favorite of mine, (she was adept at changing with the times), is Coco Chanel!

~~ Diane Keaton -- Diane’s 63, and an advocate against plastic surgery. Back in 2006 she was chosen to be the face of L’Oreal. Bug off botox peddlers.

Diane Keaton quote: I’m stuck in this idea that I need to be authentic…My face needs to look the way I feel. (Wow, what a concept, your forehead wrinkles when you’re perplexed, and laugh lines form when you’re amused—how very freaky!)

~~ Alice Hoffman – Alice is 57. I just had to choose a writer for the list. Wouldn’t you know? I chose her because I’m a big fan, and not only is Ms. Hoffman prolific, every single one of her books has been optioned for film. Holy smokes! And she has written several screenplays as well. All this, and she’s a breast cancer survivor. After being treated at Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge Mass, she established the Hoffman Breast Center.

Alice Hoffman quote – Mother’s always find ways to fit in the work—but then when you’re working, you feel that you should be spending time with your children and then when you’re with your children, you’re thinking about working.

I want to say that the world is missing a woman that I admired very much, a brilliant artist, and a wonderful mother and wife, Janice Lowry. She passed away recently and you can view her website here, janicelowry

I’m interesting in hearing about the women that you all admire, and why you admire them.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

TREASURES

2009-10-01T13:32:00.000-07:00

The Husband has been traveling around the world for a good many years, doing some very important work. He’s a certifiable globetrotter. People always ask me—don’t you go on any of these trips? Well, to be quite frank, I have accompanied him a handful of times. But, up until last year, I still had kids at home to look out for. And he pops in and out of some of these countries so quickly there really would be no point for me to tag along. All I’d see would be airplanes and hotel rooms. His traveling came to a screeching halt this last year; the derailed economy has prevented corporations from spending the money.

He’s a photographer and has shot some amazing photos during his trips. And…the best part, he would always bring me presents. The Husband has an eye for items that can’t be found down at the mall. We have a vast collection of masks, textiles, and the list goes on and on. Finally, I had to tell him. No more. Don’t bring any more.

Since we’ve moved to a smaller house, the garage remains chock full of treasures. Plastic tubs sit unpacked. Masks are still wrapped in towels and blankets. For two reasons. Reason number one: I don’t have room for everything. Reason number two: I just don’t have the heart to unpack all that stuff because we’re probably not going to stay in this house all that long, a year—maybe two. This lack of motivation to alter my surroundings is unqualifiedly uncharacteristic. I don’t want to paint. I don’t want to decorate. I don’t have it in me. Why unpack all that stuff, if I’m just going to pack it up again? We won’t want to sell anything yet. Not until we decide where we are going to go to stay for a significant amount of time. Our lives have changed immeasurably in such a short period of time.

I gave birth to my first son at the rip old age of nineteen. I’m fifty-four. I told my husband last night: yesterday afternoon, the strangest feeling came over me. I felt as if I’d forgotten the kids somewhere, that I’d neglected my motherly duties somehow. They’re all adults, off in their own little worlds, but I suddenly felt as if I’d lost them. And, I have in a way. Those kids are gone, replaced with capable adults in charge of their own lives. Just what we intended to happen, right? All these long years, my life has been extremely complicated, jammed full with five kids, and me tearing around like a chicken with her fool head chopped off, tending to their needs and wants and schooling and socializing. Our house was a den of constant activity at all times. Plus, much of the time I was working. Add that into the mix.

Now, The Husband and I work at home. Life is simple. I’m not insinuating that I’m one of those empty nesters, the kind of woman that finds herself lost without her children to define just who she is. In fact, neither my children, nor my husband, have ever been my sole reason for being. I don’t mind admitting, I’m enjoying my newfound freedom, this easy breezy lifestyle. But…I recognize that there's an adjustment to be made, deep in the recesses of my being. I am Mom, I’ll always be Mom, but my role has diminished. I am liberated. But, I need time to know I am.

When I think about it, (and that’s what I’m doing here, thinking out loud), no bloody wonder I don’t want to unpack. We are in the process of undergoing a huge adjustment period. We are in a limbo of sorts. Change is the only constant, after all.

I’ve posted a photo of the garage, (this picture doesn’t convey how much stuff is crammed in there.) And, another of the living room, (See those white walls? How boring!) That’s me taking trying to capture a beautiful ceramic of a woman on an elephant. The Husband bought her in a little shop by a lake, in Beijing, China. Incredible, he wrapped her in a sweater and packed her in his suitcase and she arrived here in the U.S. in perfect condition.

Then, there’s the church. It’s handmade, constructed of clay. This piece is from Lima, Peru, and the shop owner packaged it up and promised The Husband it would arrive in “perfect condition”. It didn’t. It was literally smashed to smithereens. Our entire family marveled as The Husband sat at the kitchen table, hot glue gun in hand, for hours upon hours, miraculously reassembling all the pieces. Amazing! I tell everyone that the little church was damaged in an earthquake. I have a story about the little village. I decorate the church for Christmas, with strings of tiny lights, and an itty-bitty wreath. I even place tiny presents in the hands of the villagers, and at their feet. I love the church, ever more special because he patched it up so carefully.

The tapestry is from New Delhi, India. The Husband found it for sale in an outdoor market. It’s very old. We hung it in the dining room.