Heatwave

Man oh man, is it stinking hot! We were having a mild summer, but as usual, right around Labor Day things heat up. It was 107 here in Temecula yesterday; it’s 104 right now. I have the air set at 80 and it’s running nonstop. We have four wildfires burning in Southern California; people may lose their homes. It’s a tinderbox. The picture above is of a house burning in Lake Arrowhead a couple of years back, and the picture of the map speaks for itself. I’m taking my youngest daughter out for a pedicure, and then lunch. My oldest daughter and the baby went to the pool with a friend. I would have gone but I had too much to do. Now that I’ve finished, it’s time to relax in one of those spa chairs for a spell. Have a great end of summer weekend all!

OH! I almost forgot to tell you guys, I got the PROOF of my book, Boomer Tales, Please Stand By, and I’ve been working like a demon going over every line with a sharp number 2 pencil. So it won’t be long now before we have a real book on our hands. Yay! Finally.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

DARTS

Old memories are surfacing, I’m not sure just why. Maybe it has something to do with turning 54 yesterday. That sounds so bloody old to me. Next year I’ll be able to order off the senior menu, oh goody.

When I was sixteen my mother decided to move, and she took my little sister and me from Portland Oregon all the way up to Northern British Columbia, because she was tired of being a lonely divorcee. Since she was Canadian, all her family members were up there. My dad and big brother lived down in Southern California, and I didn’t want to move so far away from them. As it was I didn’t see my daddy enough to suit me. I had just finished my sophomore year of high school, and the idea of leaving all my friends behind felt like the end of the world. The end of the world as I knew it anyway.

Going from a city to a one-horse-town was culture shock enough. But add to that the difference in cultures and you’re talking a huge change. I felt as if I were on Mars. Sure they spoke English, sort of, but add their habit of rapid delivery and all those “ayes”, it just wasn’t that easy to understand what people were saying at times. On the first day of school a guy walked up to me and said, “You’re trying to get into my locker.” It seemed the lady that had handed me my locker number and combination had forgotten to let me in on the fact that there was a boy’s bank of lockers off one hallway, and a girl’s bank of lockers off another, and they were numbered the same. I was at number nine, in the bank of boy’s lockers. I just stood there, staring at the guy like some mute idiot. “Are you one of the French exchange students?” He asked. “Are you from Quebec?”

“No,” I said, “I’m from Oregon.”

“Oregon?” He considered me as if I’d just claimed to be from the moon.

“You know, south of here, in The States?”

His name was Will and he asked me if I wanted to go to his house after school. I accepted the offer, I really wanted to fit in and he was the only person at that rinky dink school that had even spoken to me. (I know, looking back from the perspective of being a mother, I'm mad at my teenage self for going off with a boy I didn't know.) He drove a busted up Volkswagen bug and made his way up into the hills. His mother was making something called perogies, and he was all excited for me to try them. They were Ukrainian, and perogies were Ukrainian dumplings, he explained. In the cozy kitchen he wolfed down at least a half a dozen of the hot, mashed potato and cheese filled concoctions, that his mother served on a platter. Toppings included fried greasy onions, sour cream, and applesauce. I wasn’t all that thrilled but I had been trained to be polite and eat what was on my plate and to compliment the cook. One was enough for me. I’m afraid I wasn’t a very adventurous eater back then.

His mother just kept working over the stove, and surprisingly didn’t blink an eye when he invited me down to the basement to see his room. My mother would pitch a fit if she knew I was about to descend those steps; that I was about to go in a boy’s bedroom. I did my best to put Mom out of my mind.

At the bottom of the stairs was a rec area, complete with a rather primitive bar, a game table, and a dartboard on the wall. Will’s room was located on the other side—a typical teenager’s room, with a single bed, a small desk, a record player balanced on some cinder blocks. He was proud of his Grand Funk Railroad album, which he played full blast. We sat around for a while and then I told him that I’d better go. I had to meet my sister at the local hangout, (I can’t remember what the name of the joint is anymore), so he drove me over there and dropped me off.

The second week of school Will suggested that we skip a day. He wanted to show me something. I was beginning to find out that most kids were leery of me, especially the girls; they called me “Yank”. So I was desperate for company, although Will wasn’t exactly my type, and I wasn’t anxious to get myself in trouble, against my better judgment I agreed to go with him.

He took the main highway and drove way outside of town. We rode a ferry across the mighty Skeena River, to a small outpost on the other side, called Usk. There was an old abandoned schoolhouse. Will told me that he went there quite often, to think. He said he wanted to write songs. I told him that I was a writer. I told him that I’d been chosen for a special class of artists, that my teacher read a poem of mine, and had given me a test. After I passed he offered me a slot in the nationally run program. I would sometimes miss boring classes, which I hated, like science and math. Will seemed impressed.
Then we rode the ferry back across the river. After an inedible lunch at a greasy spoon full of truckers he took me to an old abandoned cabin and we shared an apple that he picked from a tree. “The last person that lived here was an American draft dodger named Larry Lee Larkin,” he told me. “He used to party out here. This is his table, not much of his stuff is still here.”
“Did you know this hippie?” I asked. I’d made assumptions; there was a tie-dye curtain in the kitchen, after all.
“Larry wasn’t a hippie,” he snapped. “He was a Southern Baptist. He didn’t believe in the war. He had a still in the woods out there. He sold moonshine. He could sing and play the harmonica real good.”
“Where is he now,” I asked.
“Back in The States, in Leavenworth.”
“Oh no, that’s awful.”
“He turned himself in. Said he missed Oscar Meyer wieners.”
The hot dogs in Canada were funky tasting and different, that was for sure.

The next time I went somewhere with Will, he brought me back to his house. Nobody was home. We went down in the basement and he put the Grand Funk Railroad album on again, and then kissed me for the first time. I wasn’t warm for his form. He just didn’t do it for me. I think I must have relayed my inner feelings with my lackluster demeanor. Luckily, his mother came home, called out his name from the top of the stairs, and we went to see what she wanted. We were standing in the rec area and she told Will that she needed him to carry the groceries inside. “I’ll be right back,” he called. I saw six darts sitting on the bar and decided to amuse myself. I’d grown up playing darts. Isn’t it always the way it goes? I threw two bulls eyes and with nobody there to witness the fact! Just as I’d finished, Will came running down the stairs. I was just getting ready to pull the darts out when he looked at the board. “You cheater,” he said, “you pushed those into the bulls eye. No way you made those shots.”

I had a big brother, I came from a competitive family, I was stinking good at throwing darts. “I did so,” I said, my feelings hurt.

“You did, huh? Well then, let’s play.” He took on an aggressive stance, practically growling through the entire game.

I beat him. He didn’t like losing to a puny girl, not one little bit. He drove me home and didn’t say a word the entire trip. Sore loser.

The next day Will took me aside and told me he was seeing one of the French exchange students. He said he had only spoken with me to begin with because he’d thought I was one of them and he’d always wanted to be with a French girl. I was so mad. I didn’t want to be his girlfriend, but holy crap, what a jerk. I knew he was mad because I’d kicked his ass at darts. I had lent him my Paul McCartney cassette tape, I told him I wanted it back, but he never returned it.

He ran around telling everybody in school that I was frigid and didn’t know how to kiss. The following year he impregnated one of my sister’s friends. What a schmuck!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Ow

It's three o'clock in the morning. I woke with a shooting pain in my chest. There was no way I could remain in a horizontal position, no bloody way. So here I am, at the computer, waiting for this pain, which is traveling around presently, to go away. I blame the tomatoes, they were so good I ate too many. Now I'm paying the price. Burp. Excuse me.

I thought, I'm up, well gee, may as well go comment on a few blogs. I managed to visit a few and now Blogger is being difficult and won't open up anyone's blog all of a sudden, (what's up lately anywho in the blogger universe, I'm always having troubles of one sort or another?), so I decided to see if I could post. Obviously, I can. 

I've got a long drive ahead of me tomorrow, and I need my sleep. Isn't that the way it goes? A bout with gastric distress leads to insomnia and I'll be no good in the morning. I will require coffee, loads of coffee. A strong Italian Roast might do the trick. Hey, I'm yawning, that's a good sign. The chewable Rolaid that I found in the medicine chest seems to be doing it's job, the roving pang is settling down a bit. I think I'll go try and lie down again. Wish me luck.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

POTD

Thanks David, for choosing  The Other Side of the Curtain for post of the day at AUTHORBLOG! I am honored.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

The Other Side of the Curtain

The cold hard fact was, after my cousin Alexandra came to live at our house, she totally eclipsed me. Mercy Anne McAllister all but disappeared from view. My family barely heard or saw me anymore. Daddy, Mama, and both of my older brothers were constantly gawking at her disarmingly pretty face, hanging on to Alexandra’s every word, and far too busy going out of their way to ensure that the ravishing creature’s whims and needs were met, than to be bothered with plain old Mercy. I’m telling you, being ignored gets to a girl. And being practically invisible is no fun, no fun at all.

We had to share a room. Mama hung a floor to ceiling curtain to separate and delineate our sides. Wouldn’t you know it, Alexandra’s side had both the window, and the door? I felt as if I’d been relegated to a dark hovel. They let her have the closet because she had to have somewhere to hang all those beautiful clothes. Daddy found a couple of dinged up metal lockers in Nana’s basement, and set them near the foot of my bed, so that’s where I crammed my meager belongings.

Alexandra would go on and on about what a shock it had all been: the funeral, finding out that her parents really didn’t have any money to speak of, (aside from her lawyer father’s income), losing her color-coordinated bedroom, saying goodbye to all her friends and her posh private school, and being forced to leave Chicago to come live out in the sticks with us, in Washington. Every single night, she practically talked my ears off. I had to lie there and listen to her laments until she broke out into sobs and finally cried herself to sleep. I did more than my fair share of listening. Alexandra didn’t expect, or desire a response from me, I figured that out early on. She just wanted me to be there for her, quietly listening on the other side of the curtain.

A few months went by and I watched her begin to accept the death of her parents and little sister. After a time her discourse switched tone, as well as subject matter. Chicago became a distant memory, and our small town took center stage. Even at the age of ten I understood that Alexandra had gone from being a little fish in a small pond to being a big fish in a little pond. The attention agreed with her. People would run into me, and instead of saying, “Hi there Mercy,” as they had before, they would say, “How’s that gorgeous cousin of yours doing?” Or, “Say hi to Alexandra for me, won’t you?” At an age when I was supposed to be growing, I was shrinking. I figured that pretty soon I’d be as miniscule as a fly, and about as important.

All total, my cousin shared my bedroom for three years. I was the first one to know that the traveling preacher was driving Alexandra out to the orchards whenever he came to town, that he was teaching her things. That he was doing things, to her. I listened to my lust-driven cousin list all the reasons why she loved The Reverend Wiley Thomas. And I didn’t dare bring up the Holy Bible, or tell Alexandra that she was surely going to burn in hell.

After the ugly truth came out about how he had planted his seed in Alexandra’s belly, Daddy went to visit The Reverend Wiley, and the contrite preacher readily agreed to marry her. Who knew he had another wife in Spokane, and three little kids, that he hadn’t even bothered to divorce? All that mess got handled though, thanks to Daddy. They wed in her eighth month of pregnancy, and That Scoundrel (Daddy’s words) preacher took our Alexandra away to live in another town.

Mama tried to take the curtain down, but I asked her to go ahead and leave it hanging. I’d gotten used to sleeping against the wall in the dark. I’d grown accustomed to anonymity. I felt safe, concealed, and protected from the kind of emotion and passion that had gotten Alexandra in so much trouble. You see, I knew, being invisible has its rewards.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Such a Generous Man/Fiction

That awful morning a shaft of light suddenly shone into the room, despite Natalie having done her best, in a preposterously inebriated state the night before, to pull the draperies shut tight. You see, she did not want to wake up early. Her goal was to sleep in—way in. Why rush to wake up? But the vagabond beam had somehow signaled some primal instinct in her brain. Despite her best efforts to ignore the mechanical urge to slide out of bed—she did just that. On her feet, not steady, but nonetheless on her feet, she remembered. Jason had chosen Mia, after all. He would return home to his wife and kiddies. Time to head for the shower stall, turn on that hot water, and rinse the stench of her handsome businessman lover off her skin. How many times, over and over and over, had Jason pronounced Natalie to be the most beautiful woman alive? Barely having only just celebrated her twenty-second birthday, the poor discarded mistress thought, woman my ass! And she began to scrub herself raw with the loofa.

Posh hotel rooms had become the norm. Prior to meeting Jason, Natalie had never set foot in a hotel lobby, let alone the likes of the stately suites he favored. He made it a point to introduce her to the good life. In her previous incarnation as a proud college graduate, The Brown Cow Steakhouse had been her idea of a great place to go for dinner. But, since taking up with Jason on a vacation in Seattle, he had single-handedly done his best to accustom Natalie to loftier fare. Loftier everything. The prospect of crawling back home to Spokane Washington disturbed her to such a degree; she could think of nothing else to do but lean up against the marble wall like some sort of rag doll, under the steady stream of hot water, to cry her eyes out. Sure, in the end she would miss Jason, but how could a girl from a relatively modest background ever willingly give up the ridiculously luxurious way of life he had exposed her to?

Jason wasn’t a monster. Arrangements had been made. The room was hers until Monday. He’d been kind enough to leave a pile of cash on the night table, under the phone. Also, a ticket back home, and a note telling her that he would never forget their erotic times spent together. Jason's assistant answered his cell phone when she called. “Where is he?” Her voice had taken on a shrill and strange register, even to her own ears.

Leo, Jason’s assistant, was a short-little-sawed-off-asshole. They had never cared for each other, and Natalie could hear the glee lurking behind his pathetic effort to sound detached as he replied, “In the South Pacific, with Mia and the children, that’s as specific as I’m allowed to get.”

“Specific, Pacific, don’t put me on. You tell him that he better call me back, and right away,” she threatened.

“Leave it be, Natalie,” Leo warned.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” It was obvious that the little shit weasel had put her on speakerphone, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Jason was listening in.

“He’s made up his mind, from here on in,” Leo told her, in the most cautious tone, “to be a good husband, and a good father. It’s over, Dear. Accept that.”

Natalie caught a glimpse of herself in the full length mirror on the armoire in the corner of the room, her long legs were tan and smooth, her breasts were full and natural. She was everything that Jason could not resist, despite his absolute resolve to head back home so he might play good little mate and daddy extraordinaire. The guy would not be capable of pulling off his little act at domesticity, and Natalie knew it. “Jason had better give me a call,” she advised. “Or I might just show up at his doorstep one day soon. I might just sign up for dance classes.”

Leo let out an involuntary sound, a yelp of sorts, followed by, “Don’t you dare! It would be a mistake to bother the family. It would be a huge mistake to show up at Mia's dance studio. Look, between you and me, Jason dawdles; don’t read into it more than it meant. He was fooling around. Surely you knew that?”

Natalie told Leo to wise up. After counting the bills she headed on over to Nordstrom’s. It came as no surprise when she discovered the wind had been taken out of her sails. There was no impetus to purchase a damn thing. In the end, after ducking into a wine bar, it just made sense to let the-over-the-top-gay-waiter choose a Chardonnay on her behalf. When her phone began to vibrate in her purse Natalie retrieved it, realizing that the call was coming from Jason’s number, her heart began to pound madly. For a brief five second interval she considered not answering. But really, she could not, not answer, now could she?

“It’s me Sweetie,” Leo’s nasal voice assaulted her senses, and the very notion of the jerk using a term of endearment made Natalie’s face turn red and grow warm. She kept quiet while he went on to say, “I have a proposition for you Dear.”

The super-modern-dream-come-true loft apartment overlooked Elliot Bay. As time passed by Natalie came to view Jason as a philanthropic beneficiary. How downright fortunate, to have met such a generous man at such a young age, what a lucky girl she was!







All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

I can read your blogs but I can't leave a comment. Google must be having problems again today, these glitches are getting rather tiresome. I blocked out a length of time to read and comment on Blogger and I can't accomplish what I set out to do. I'll try again later.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

HONEST SCRAP

Oowie Peewie, I've won the HONEST SCRAP award. I can't capture the picture for some reason. Marguerite from Cajundelights  bestowed it upon me. How sweet she is, and if you haven't been to her blog, scoot on over. Good food, good times, and you'll learn just how FUN being Cajun can be. 

I'm going to take this opportunity to thank everyone that follows my blog, or leaves a comment. I'm kind of new to blogging and you've all made me feel real welcome. Reading your blogs has expanded my world. Some of you bloggers out there are sweet, some of you are spicy, some of you are naughty, and some of you are just plain hilarious. 

Last night I went and saw the movie Julie & Julia. Blogging is featured in the film. Meryl Streep deserves an Oscar, (big surprise), and it was amazing to see how Julie Powell's blog became so popular SO FAST. Just in case you're unfamiliar with Julie Powell, she wrote the blog that did so well, was pursued by agents and publishers, and then went on to write a book about her experience, and that book inspired the movie. 

I guess as part and parcel of receiving this award, I'm supposed to tell you guys 10 things you don't know about the author of this blog. Here goes:

*I grew up in various locations in The Pacific Northwest. I love it up there and miss the country. I even miss the rain!

*Got one older brother, and one younger sister, so that makes me a middle child.

*Three things drive me absolutely up a wall, untangling necklaces, cleaning ovens, and going to see a doctor (for any reason).

*Over the course of 16 yrs I gave birth to five children.

*Cooking turns me on, I'll whip you up something yummy if you come to visit.

*You could say I tend to be a bit picky about order. But having the 5 kids REALLY mellowed me out.

*Worry, stress, and lack of sleep, all tend to hit me in the stomach. I have to take medication when it does. So I've learned to drink yogurt every morning, and to meditate when things get hectic, in order to avoid keeping the makers of Zantac in business.

*My birth sign is Virgo, my rising moon is Scorpio.

*At the age of three, I could write my name out in cursive. My brother taught me, all nineteen letters. And by the age of four I was reading. My parents would have me read at parties to entertain their friends.

*I'm crazy about my husband. He's the best person I know. He's like George Washington, he cannot tell a lie. Really, he's incapable of lying.

Whew, I did it!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Under the Temecula Sun

We spent the past weekend surrounded by family. Yesterday afternoon, The Husband took my brother and our son-in-law out for a walk while my daughter and I made a trip to Target to buy a bathing suit for the baby. Somewhere along the line, The Husband and The Brother decided to go for a real hike. So, The Son-In-Law (he was pushing The New Baby Granddaughter in a stroller) returned home with the three dogs, and the two older guys took off. They ventured far beyond the housing developments, off into a more rustic and rural landscape. When they returned a couple of hours later, we heard about their discovery—an ancient olive grove with an incredible abandoned stone farmhouse. I’ve mentioned before, the husband is a photographer, but he doesn’t take his camera with him when he walks the dogs, so he didn’t have one. Drat, and double drat.

Okay, who doesn’t love ancient olive groves and abandoned stone farmhouses? I can’t imagine anyone not finding the description they furnished utterly enchanting: after climbing a long grassy hill, upon reaching the crest and beginning their descent, they spied the olive trees. That photo at the top of the page came from the Internet. My attempt at setting the mood…

Anyway, the stone farmhouse sounds fantastic to me. A dream come true. After I stop hyperventilating, I ask, “Is it for sale?” I’m already buying a ticket at the gas station and winning the lottery in my mind. Fixing the place up, restoring what’s been cast aside back to its former glory. I read “Under the Tuscan Sun”, which by the way had nothing whatsoever to do with the stupid movie of the same name. My imagination has been captured. My imagination is in jail.

There’s no way to drive to the location. So, it’s safe to say a hike is in my future.

What captures your imagination?






All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

BONE HEAD

I chose this photo of the author Anne Sexton to head my post because she's a dead ringer for my mother-in-law. Reason enough, me thinks.             

I think I’ve written on this subject matter before, but what the heck, I’m inclined to revisit the topic. I keep a folder on my desktop titled, “Possible Stories”, which is self-explanatory. When I find myself stumped for something to write about I go fishing around for ideas, opening the folder and looking for inspiration. Yesterday I came across a doc titled “Bone Head”. Hmm, I thought, that sounds interesting. So I clicked my mouse—that’s all there was though—those two mystifying words and no explanation of what direction to go in. What did I have in mind at the time when I saved those two words? For the life of me, I couldn’t recall. Did I find inspiration? Sadly, no. I couldn’t come up with a thing.

Moving right along, (I’m not one to dwell on something that isn’t sparking my interests or serving my needs, I clicked on another title. I chose “The Helpful One”. At least there was a sentence under the title. One lonely sentence that read: My sister Marty was favored by Mother because she was the helpful one in our family. Okay. What do I do with that? My brain wouldn’t light. Now, that’s not saying that at a future date I won’t come back and read those same words and not be inspired. It just didn’t fire my rockets yesterday.

The next interesting prospect had a much longer title, “Fred Won’t Ever Find That Rainbow”. My explanation for the story read like this: An ex wife is constantly putting down her husband to her children. They prefer him to her, and she knows it. She’s a bitter woman. Conversely, the father is a charismatic dreamer. Now this one had wings. Maybe because my mother was always putting down my father, even before they were divorced, and I felt as if I could sink my teeth right into this storyline. In my mother’s eyes the man couldn’t do anything right. And yet, other people admired Pop, they followed him, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that some even worshipped him. But good old Mom, she never missed an opportunity to disparage the poor guy. So, I’d found my story subject. Now it was up to me to craft something that people might find engaging and entertaining. Maybe by reading my story they might even learn something.




All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Fizzy Water Has No Calories

Living on a diet of fizzy water, bites of saltines, and what tiny scraps I’ve been able to keep down, I’m happy to report there’s a good side to being so ill! I’ve lost three pounds. I’m sure the fevers and chills alone fueled a massive calorie burn.

I’m a bit wonky on my feet today…but (and I say this with some trepidation) I do feel better. Not so sick in my stomach, my head doesn’t ache all that much, a considerable improvement. I won’t be swimming, but I may be able to walk the dogs for the first time in three days (The Husband has been filling in, what a sweetheart) and hopefully I can repay him by cooking something nice for dinner. He’s been making due with leftovers, and once they were gone the poor guy was forced to resort to canned soup.

The other day I was standing in line waiting to purchase some rapid-release Tylenol geltabs at the grocery store, and I happened to look over the cover of one of those silly gossip magazines, and the headline claimed that Jessica Simpson had lost 10lbs in 10 days, or was it 7lbs in 7 days? Anyway, I was pretty delirious, so don’t quote me on the facts or lack thereof. I’m sure that rag was lying. They can print any old damn thing they want. Can you imagine, having cameramen chasing you down, taking unflattering pictures of your ass in compromising positions? I’ve noticed that they like to shoot celebrity women as they attempt to climb out of their cars, as they bend over to do something, you get the picture. My daughter says they wanted to be famous so they deserve what they get. I don’t go along with that. They should be allowed to have a private life. Maybe Jessica just had the flu.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

What A Drag

I feel awful. Seriously awful. I have a sore throat, an earache, and I didn't get much sleep because I kept having fever and chills. I tried to sit down and read my favorite blogs but the words are getting all furry. Words aren't supposed to be furry. I tried to eat a toast but my stomach feels like it used to when I was six weeks pregnant. Like I'm about to hurl. So I'm signing off. My three dogs, (okay that's not us in the picture, I would never tie that thing around my head to get their attention) are concerned, they always know when I'm sick and I think it scares them. If I die they know life will go to hell in a handbasket, I am their EVERYTHING. Oh well, fingers don't want to type, got to go get horizontal NOW.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

It’s For My Collection Mama!

My youngest daughter used to collect the strangest things when she was little: half-empty spools of thread, headless dolls, crayon nubs, stray bits of fabric, matted stuffed animals that the other kids no longer wanted, coloring books that had been all colored in. I’d say something like, “Why on Earth do you have a pile of pebbles in the corner of your room Girl?” And she’d say, “It’s for my collection Mama. Don't touch it!” You get the picture, she would use her collected junk to create things. Clothes for the headless dolls, constructions. She was an artist. She’ll be turning 21 this year; she’s graduated from fashion design school, and is now working on commercials doing costume work. So, even our early collections do speak volumes about us.

I currently own collections of: teapots, quilts, old umbrellas, leather suitcases, books, tablecloths, masks from all over the world, candles, aprons, shoes, and did I mention books? I came to the conclusion that I’ve got enough stuff now. I stopped collecting, even my cherished books. I received a Kindle reading device as a gift; so I only buy digital books now. Just some of the stuff I used to collect in the past: paper-dolls, brightly colored or metallic stilettos (high heels), notebooks, angora sweaters, knee socks, incense burners and incense, posters of my favorite rock stars, charms for my gold bracelets and necklaces, silver dollars, dolls from different countries, trolls, and my used Pee Chees which were covered in drawings and whatnot, (remember Pee Chees?).

What did, or do you collect? For some lame reason I downloaded the picture of the suitcases twice, and didn't get my tablecloth picture up. I can't undo this, I don't know why. (I'm a bit daft I suppose.)


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

A Rock and a Hard Place

We lost our phone service and our Internet connectivity last night. Since we both work from home this is not just a major inconvenience, this is impacting our livelihood. Do you think Verizon cares? It’s amazing that they call the department that you talk to CUSTOMER SERVICE. They don’t know the meaning of the word. Jeeze.

Anyway, The Husband was freaking out because they didn’t want to come fix our problem until next week. He’s normally a pretty mild-mannered guy, but presently he’s got clients all over the globe that can’t get a hold of him, and that won’t do. The soonest the repairman could come out; he was assured after asking to speak to a “higher authority” is tomorrow.

So, I collected my disturbed mate and drove him to the Murrieta Library (pictured above) where they have all kinds of cool places that you can work. From tables, to easy chairs, to nice little personal cubicles, (that’s where we’re sitting), and he’s working away. The club chairs look like the ones they have at Starbuck’s. Only they don’t serve iced tea or coffee drinks and sandwiches and pastries here at the library. And I am so HUNGRY. I haven’t had anything to eat, and I drank the last, (about 4 ounces) of the bottle of liquid yogurt smoothie from the refrigerator at home, and that was two hours ago. I’m dreaming of food. We're related to the guy (in a roundabout kind of a way) that runs a little place up the road called "Gourmet Italia" (pictured above), and I'm remembering how delicious their fried calamari salad is. Mm, margarita pizza, bread sticks. Oh God! I've got to stop doing this to myself! Don’t know when we’ll be able to leave. Work is being done by The Husband, as I fool around. I’m unable to check my e-mail. But I can do that on my phone. I’m just playing around on Twitter. Blogging about our catastrophe. Many of you are probably thinking, man, she’s making a big deal over nothing. But seriously, if you let your clients down they won’t come back and in this economy you can’t afford to let you clients down. Unless you’re Verizon, because then, you have your clients where you want them, between a rock and a hard place. Ouch.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

HOT TOMATA

I remember my Uncle Ronnie telling Daddy that our neighbor lady was a hot tomata. We had a big garden out back where my mama and daddy and my grandparents grew all kinds of veggies, but hands down, those tomatoes were the stars. Big red fat ones. My job was to pull the ugly green worms off the plants and drop them in a big metal bucket. I don’t know what my grandfather did with the disgusting creatures after I harvested them. It was my job to protect the lovely aromatic tomatoes at all costs and I was vigilant about my duties. I tried in vain to understand why Uncle Ronnie thought that pretty Mrs. Kelly resembled a tomato. I thought she looked like more like Marilyn Monroe. But Mama told her best friend Vi that she thought Mrs. Kelly should start doing sit-ups, on account of her potbelly. But her belly didn’t look like a pot to me. Her son was just an itty-bitty baby and Mrs. Kelly used to push him up and down the street in a fancy English-style pram. “You stay away from the hot tomata,” Daddy told Uncle Ronnie. Uncle Ronnie smashed his cigarette out on the side of the house and said, “Don’t worry, she won’t even look at me.”

Here’s what I do with vine-ripened tomatoes in the summertime, and when my kids come to visit they expect me to serve a bowlful with every meal.

I’ll leave the quantities up to you. Chop up your tomatoes in bite sized chunks. I like to mix different varieties and colors, if available. If not, just use what you have on hand. In a pretty bowl with room to toss, add: diced garlic (roasted works really well for a softer garlic flavor, but raw works too), diced shallots (or purple onions or green onions), fresh basil ribbons, chopped Italian parsley, extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar (or champagne vinegar), and sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste. Let the tomatoes sit for at least twenty minutes before serving, and be sure to stir several times.




All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

My Pookas

Sometimes I feel like the character Elwood P. Dowd, the guy Jimmy Stewart played in that movie “Harvey”. Only I’m not dealing with a 6’3” rabbit named Harvey, I’m dealing with my various human characters. My characters are on my mind, morning, noon, night, and day. They go where I go and they take me where they go. They speak to me and I can hear their thoughts.

Harvey, in case you don’t know, was a pooka. A pooka is some kind of mischievous fairy-like creature from Celtic mythology. As a kid, I found “Harvey” the movie confusing. Was that big old rabbit real? Or were all those grown-ups nuts?

Where do my characters come from anyway? Sometimes they resemble someone I know, or have known, but mostly they just pop into my brain, and make themselves evident to me. Revealing their traits and foibles one by one. I’m as surprised by their behavior as I can be. Oftentimes I have trouble influencing them. Writers talk about controlling their characters, I have a hard time with certain ones. They like to boss me around. They like to give me the run around. Are they pookas? I wonder.

Take Carly Ratzke, the very-sexy-double-jointed, part-time yoga instructor, part time realtor that showed up in my brainspace a few weeks ago. Carly puts herself in a love hate relationship with every man she hooks up with, and quite often tinkers around knowingly with their lives. She can’t help but manipulate and control. I try to teach her lessons. I try to lead her down a better path. But she’s absolutely hell-bent on ruining these men. I had to tell Carly that I’m leaving her alone in a file on the desktop for a while. She’s not learning anything; she’s not developing into the kind of a character that a reader could empathize with. I prefer to write stories about people that deserve to be the center of attention on the page, and the poor thing, she can’t seem to help it, she’s what you’d call downright mean. Somerset Maugham’s “Of Human Bondage”, came to mind, and his character Mildred, who’s even worse than Carly. But Mildred wasn’t the protagonist in Maugham’s masterpiece, Philip Carey was. Mildred treats Philip horribly and he changes, thank goodness.

I suppose I could fish around in my consciousness, find a counterpart to Carly, a nice strong man, someone capable of turning her despicable penchant to harm into affection. A real nice guy, a special guy, someone that Carly can’t bring herself to hurt. But, I wouldn’t want to become a willing participant in constructing the circumstances where she might do harm to such a man, so I’ll leave her be for a while. Sometimes it works out that way.

Right now I’m getting to know Russell Greer, he’s dealing with the recent birth of his down-syndrome son. I think we’re a better fit.








All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Endless Negotiation

I read this Nora Ephron quote today: Age is an endless negotiation, and everybody deals with things their own way. The things you might have made judgments about when you were younger (and had no idea what aging was going to be like) just seem foolish to me.

I Googled Nora’s age, and learned that she’s 68. Wow, she’s thirteen years older than I am. I found this photo on the Internet and I think she looks good for 68, don’t you? I was in the midst of a hot flash earlier today and I thought to myself, Good Lord I had no idea. How could I? During my girlhood I’d heard some of my mother’s friends complain about hot flashes (oddly enough, my own mother didn’t have them) and whenever I heard them lamenting about menopausal symptoms I thought, well how bad can it be? Ha!

Another aspect about aging that I could have never understood? How beauty fades, and this vanishing beauty thing happens ever so slowly. One day you look in the mirror and you think, where’s that girl I used to be? She’s gone. Poof! You’d like to reach back through the years, grab her by those boney shoulders, give her a good shake and have a little talk with her. You’d like to explain a few things, maybe save her from heartache, and the bigger mistakes. Life would be different now (for you, the woman) if you could cheat and give that girl a warning or two.

You really do represent the sum total of what you’ve learned. Maybe that’s why older women seem to enjoy doling out sage advice. “Hey, I’ve learned a thing or two Missy,” they like to say, “you ought to listen to me.” But headstrong girls hardly ever heed their elder’s council. And so it goes, the same mistakes get made, over and over and over again.

I picture angels watching all this, and saying, “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Oh my, look at her go. Another unwanted pregnancy.” “Uh oh, and I thought that girl had a head on her shoulders. But that brute beat her to a pulp and she didn’t leave him.” “If only she’d gone and had that mammogram the doctor ordered, if only.” Frustrated angels, witnessing all those mistakes.

I used to say that I’d never consider having a facelift. Then, an aunt of mine came to visit and I was going on and on about how happy I was to share in her gene pool, that I hoped I looked as good as she did by the time I reached her age. Then she made me promise not to tell anyone, and confessed that she had a facelift. And the surgery left her in so much pain and she had to endure several weeks of slow recovery (that even though the procedure did the trick and took a good ten years off her appearance) she wouldn’t have gone through with it if she had known how painful it would have been. Maybe—maybe not. Because, we tend to ignore what we don't want to hear. My daughter had a baby 3 months ago. And she can’t believe how difficult motherhood is. Telling her didn’t convince her, she had to live it.

I’m afraid we’re doomed to learn as we go along.

How will I feel at 68? How will I handle the endless negotiation with aging that Norah mentioned? I think it's about time I focus those snippets of wisdom I come across now and then. Preparing myself for what I hope will be a long (less bumpy) road ahead.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Loveliest / Short Fiction

Today Lettie could not manage walking on the beach alone. Ninety summers spent at the seashore, and for some reason she could not find her balance, couldn’t make her way to the water's edge without assistance. Brook held one arm, Charlie took the other. Lettie permitted Brook to lower her into the folding chair. And didn’t shed a tear. No displays of insolent ingratitude from that old girl. No, she was lucky to be there and she knew it. Happy to feel the spray of the sea as her gnarled toes burrowed in the sand, and the sun warmed her wrinkled unrecognizable face. A gale buffeted Brook’s umbrella as she struggled to provide shade. “No Dear,” Lettie said. “Let me bask for a bit.” Prompting Brook to close the umbrella, and rush towards Lettie with a dollop of sunscreen. She didn’t protest as Brook slathered her nose and cheeks.

Little Binky followed her sister Tess out to the water. Charlie hovered, his children were fearless, but no matter, Lettie watched him fret on their behalf. He lifted Binky in and out of the surf as she giggled merrily and kicked her chubby legs. Tess was busy digging and filling up her pail. Brook pointed to her toddler, and said, “That used to be me.”

“And your mother, and my daughter,” Lettie added. “And me, and my mother too.” Tess dumped the pail and began to fill it up once more.

Brook was Lettie's great-granddaughter; she cheerfully displayed endless patience for an old woman, and loved the house on the bluff as much as Lettie did. Lettie changed her will last year, made up her mind to leave the old barn to a deserving soul. Nobody knew. It was nobody’s business but hers anyway. 

They were three weeks into a three-month stay. Charlie drove out Friday night and stayed most weekends. Weekends tended to be hectic. They always cooked a Sunday meal. Today was Lettie's birthday, so they were having crab fritters, a chopped Farmer’s Market salad, shrimp Louise, and blackberry crumble topped with homemade vanilla ice cream. Brook invited the neighbors. The girl was far more sociable than Lettie had ever been. Brook would feed the children early and put them to bed while Charlie and Lettie prepared the meal. Sunday evenings were a civilized,  grown-up affair. They wore dresses, and fixed up their sun-lightened hair. Charlie usually donned one of his favored colorful silk shirts. Lettie had been put in charge of the crab fritters, her specialty. Charlie would cook the shrimp concoction, and Brook had already prepared the salad and the crumble—Lettie's daughter Sarah’s recipe. Sarah was gone, taken by cancer, thirty some years ago now. Lettie's sibling’s were all dead. Four brothers, and one sister, gone. Her best friend was gone too, she died on the operating table, poor little Gertrude. 

Dying on the operating table was not for Lettie, she wouldn’t let doctors feed her pills, and she wouldn’t let them cut her open. She had made it this far, not too shabby. Ninety. Never thought she'd see the day, or grow to be so damn old. But, on this birthday, for some reason Lettie felt off. Not right. From the comfort of that folding chair it dawned on her, the old heart wasn’t beating, it was thumping. Lettie asked Brook if she wouldn’t mind setting up the umbrella after all. From under the shelter of the umbrella she watched Tess fill the bucket, dump the bucket, fill the bucket, dump the bucket, fill the bucket, dump the bucket. Sitting Indian style, her great, great granddaughter seemed content to be surrounded by mounds of lopsided soggy sand dunes of her own making.

Up in her room on the third floor, there will be no crab fritters or blueberry crumble tonight, as she's not feeling well enough to partake. Charlie positioned Lettie's bed in such a manner that she could prop herself up with pillows and watch the sun set over the Pacific through the bay window. Tonight’s sunset is spectacular, an orange and purple extravaganza, a fabulous display, the loveliest birthday gift ever. She closes her eyes after the sun descends, and sees them, one and all. Her people. Seems they have been waiting with willow arms to catch Lettie when she falls out of this life. A curious sensation ensues, she is all at once lighter than a grain of sand.




All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Today, we're going to the beach. The Husband doesn't know yet. I haven't told him. But, we are going. I've made up my mind. I'm thinking Carlsbad. Here's a post card picturing the flower fields that grow out there, I have no idea if they will be blooming today, or what we'll encounter, but we'll take pictures. The Husband is quite the photographer. Whatever you're doing on this glorious summer day, I hope you go outside and have FUN.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Ruminating This Wednesday

I hated to see three of my children deal with a big disappointment last evening, (nothing so horrible in the grand scheme of things, but disappointing nonetheless), and seeing them so deflated reminded me of my journey through the minefields of my own disenchantments. How it can sting when you were so sure that you were just about to grab hold of that brass ring, but missed. Ah…what a downer, what a bummer, what a blow! Such setbacks trigger one of three responses, from me anyway: either I curl up and make like a roly poly bug to hide for a while as I do my best to recover, or I pretend that I didn't care all that much and bury my resentment, or the more healthy route, shake it off and try, try again.

During this little exercise I’ve done my best to remember my first go round with disappointment. I remember being shocked when I learned that the vegetable garden died out in the fall. I remember freaking out when Mama tried to explain that I’d outgrown my sundress and my little sister would now be wearing the lovely frills, instead of me. I stormed off and hid in the basement, trying to watch myself grow, studying my hands and feet intensely. My first major disappointment, in kindergarten I performed and nobody came to watch. To add insult to injury the teacher had to stand outside the school with me for a good half hour before anybody showed up to take me home. Add to the list: my mother throwing my father out of the house, losing to my nemesis in the spelling bee after practicing so hard, my father going back on his word to put me through college, rejection letters from editors or agents, and the list goes on and on. 

Naturally, moving right along, as we age the magnitude of our defeats and letdowns intensifies. We learn to shrug off what doesn’t work out, we learn to brush the little buggers aside, and we better learn to prioritize. If we don’t, we will surely suffer, bogged down by resentment and cynicism.

I have encountered days where I felt as if I might succumb to the downward pull of despair over what could have been, weeping over what has fallen away. But, most days I do my best to battle doubt and despair. Reminding myself to be grateful for what I have and not to dwell on what I have lost.

You can easily spot those that have given in. All you have to do is to look past their armor and deep into their eyes to see that they have thrown in the towel.

All this ruminating reminded me of an outstanding quote from one of my favorite writers:

The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good, and the very gentle, and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry.” ~~ Ernest Hemingway


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Take a Little Tour of Our New Home Town

                                                                   Vail Lake
Our own little airport, they serve breakfast!
        Lunch anyone?
        Lovely vineyards under the sun
     Hot Air Balloons over Skinner Lake

                   We have to try this!
      These guys sell  terrific garlic-stuffed olives


Thought I'd share a little information about our new home town today.

Temecula circa 1909! It sure doesn't look like this now! Don't you love historical pictures? The olive bar is in OLD TOWN, and well worth a visit. I've included a picture of Vail Lake, (which I have to admit I have not visited yet but I hear it's a great place to camp), and a vineyard or two, (just a couple miles away. I know, lucky us!), and those hot air balloons are flying over Lake Skinner which is just a hop skip and a jump away. French Valley Airport is a good place to take flying lessons, (my husband is signing up!), or to take a glider ride. So, if you visit Southern California, don't forget our wine country! Did I say, we love living here, well so far we do!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

In The Mood (True Story)

Several years ago my co-worker Glen suggested we go for Thai. I was more in the mood for Italian or maybe Mexican, but didn’t squabble because I hadn't had a thing to eat all day. We were stopping for a late lunch after driving a considerable distance that gloomy day to work on bids in downtown Los Angeles. Most places weren’t even serving lunch anymore, as they had closed to prepare for the dinner crowd. The Thai place had a glowing OPEN sign in the window, was practically empty and very dark, so we sat in the front under the sign where we figured we’d have a little more light. A frail old man took our order. I sat in the chair facing the window. My co-worker had a view of the room. I turned around and gave the place the once over, mostly to see where the snickering was coming from. I saw a mature woman carefully pouring tea for a fellow I presumed was her husband at a table not far from us. As my eyes adjusted I managed to focus in on the source of the boisterousness, two young girls dressed like punk rockers sitting at a booth all the way against the furthest wall in the darkest recesses at the back of the restaurant. It appeared that they were feeding one another. I turned back around.

Our beers arrived. Glen drank his straight from the bottle. I used the small frosty glass that the old man provided for that very purpose. We discussed business briefly. But predictably, Glen began to complain about his wife. Male coworkers, (and back then there were hardly any women in my line of work), made a practice of pointing out their wive’s or girlfriend’s various flaws to me. Glen’s wife had lost a baby boy years earlier and had never gotten over it. They had a young daughter but she resented the poor little thing. Or, so Glen claimed. I had my doubts. I’d seen his wife at the company picnic acting like any other loving mother, fussing over the little girl when she fell in the three-legged race, and seeing to it that she didn’t drink too many sodas. 

Whenever he tried to drag his wife through the mud, I’d take up for her and wash her off with my words. “Everyone deals with loss in different ways,” I reminded him. “Maybe you two should go to therapy.” 

Glen offered no response and took a long swallow of  beer. I wasn’t interested in encouraging any of the men I worked with. It was a good old boy network and I had to get along in that hostile envirorment if I wanted to get anywhere. I knew darn well that they were continually testing the water, and I wanted to make it very clear, the water was freezing cold. I wanted to make it crystal clear that I wasn’t interested in fooling around with any of them—no way.

The old man set our plates down and waddled off. I couldn’t help but notice that Glen wasn’t paying attention to his pad Thai, that he was indeed ignoring his fried pork belly and broccoli. Why, the man’s eyes were glazing over. I turned around to see what had captured his attention so steadfastly. Glen didn’t make a practice of ignoring food. I turned around just as the mature woman exclaimed, “Well, for crying out loud!”

The two girls were going at it. One girl was practically straddling her friend. The girl on the bottom, her blouse was open, exposing a breast, and she began to moan as the girl on top ground her hips wildly. I had never seen such a public display.

The woman stood up, “Sir,” she said, waving the ancient waiter over. Before he reached her table she rushed to him and whispered something in his ear. He glanced over at the two girls; they were lip-locked at that moment and oblivious to the scrutiny. The old man backed away, did an about turn, and disappeared behind a curtain and into the kitchen. The woman’s husband begged her to sit down and finish her food. I watched him pop a shrimp into his mouth in one deft move. Like me, he wasn’t facing the frisky lesbians, and like me he preferred to eat his food while it was still hot. I turned around and dug in.

Glen, on the other hand, was completely riveted. His jaw hung slack as he watched them make out. The man was in heaven. I took one of his spring rolls and he didn’t even notice. Glen wasn't big on sharing.

The mature woman jumped out of her chair and stormed into the kitchen when the old man didn’t return. I could hear her in there making quite a ruckus. Her husband just shook his head and continued eating with his back facing the amorous goings-ons. A young woman emerged, tread softly over to the girl’s table, and in a most hesitant and calm manner asked that they vacate the premises.

“What?” The more aggressive girl slid off the other and glared at the woman, “I can’t understand you.”

The Thai woman's accent hadn’t been that thick, I'd understood what she said. 

The mature woman joined the proprietor at the lesbian’s table. “Don’t play act! You heard her. Don't make us call the police,” she said, pointing to the sign over the cash register that said WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE. “Just pay your bill and leave.”

The Thai woman moved behind the mature woman when the girl slammed her fist against the table and sent dishes and silverware to rattling and chattering. “I am not done eating!” She shouted.

The mature woman said, “We’ll pack it up for you.”

The other lesbian began to button her shirt. “Let’s go Jo,” she said. “I’m finished here, forget the food, it's crappy anyway.” She was full of it, the food was wonderful. 

Glen watched every move the girls made as they paid and went out the door.

“I ate one of your spring rolls,” I told him.

He looked down at his plate. “Man, that was something. I’m turned on.”

Disgusted, I grabbed another spring roll, leaving him only one. “You’re a pig,” I snapped. Getting something off my chest that I wanted to say for a long time.

Glen didn’t seem to hear me though. He downed the rest of his beer, grabbed his fork, and said, “If that lady didn’t break in I think the pretty one might have gotten naked. I really do.”

The mature woman finally returned to the table to join her husband just as he had finished cleaning his plate. “You missed the show,” she said. “Those two were really having themselves quite a time.”

I'm afraid curiosity got the best of me, I craned my neck to witness his reaction. The man studied his wife momentarily, then replied, “I guess I am getting old. I’m hungry all the time, not horny.”

“Oh Ralph,” the mature woman said, then she smiled and poured him some more tea.











All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Live It Up!

I'm a pretty patriotic person and I really have no problem saying so. I think America rocks and don't feel a need to be bashful about expressing this belief. The 4th of July is fun. This year I am having one of my famous bouts with bursitis and I am at home while my sweet husband is off at a parade with the kids and grandkids, (picture my downward turned mouth corners, picture me glum), and then he's dropping by a rally of sorts after that. I will be attending the bar-b-que at my son and daughter-in-laws house this afternoon though, (nothing could keep me from going there!) I'm making crab cakes, and desert, (haven't decided what yet even though it is getting kind of late), and smashed garlic potatoes. I wish all of my readers the best holiday ever. Even if you aren't particularly patriotic the 4th is a good excuse to eat and be merry. All that, and fireworks too! Yay!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

The Ugly Baby and The Grocery Goddess

I saw an ugly baby riding along precariously in a shopping cart at the grocery store today, couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. That poor thing wore only a plain used-to-be-white onesie over it’s disposable diaper, and nothing else. The hair was scraggly and dingy, giving no clues as to gender. Colorless lashless eyes, a mouth like a torn pocket, the sum total of the pitiful little upturned face virtually cried out for sympathy, pity even. The mother, on the other hand, was a goddess. If the mother of that ugly baby isn’t a stripper she should run out and apply, they’d certainly hire her right on the spot, and God knows she already sports the wardrobe pickin’s to qualify. I caught my husband checking her out, (no I didn’t blame him), as there I was giving her a once over myself! Cotton candy hair, long fake eyelashes, she stood at least 5”11, if not 6’ tall, and her breasts were enormous but not too enormous. Every inch of her skin, and there was plenty of it on display, was peaches and cream perfection. No pimples, no blemishes, no freckles, no stretch marks, no cellulite, I’m talking perfect! How she managed to traverse the huge warehouse-like market in those stilettos is unfathomable to me. But there she was gliding through the place, the ugly baby staring at its mama just like everybody else.

Okay, so maybe that baby's mama is a stripper, and maybe she isn’t. Maybe she’s a housewife, (yeah right, wink, wink), or maybe she’s a kept woman. Whatever, she sure did get my writer’s mind churning.

Keep an eye out, the grocery goddess might turn up in one of my stories…


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Short Fiction

She Got Back Home

Shep took Lindy away from her home one hot summer night. They agreed to meet at two by the Reseda Boulevard onramp to the Ventura Freeway, making for a quick and easy getaway. She brought along her traveling bag, two hundred dollars, and her mother’s diamond ring. At the tender age of fifteen, Lindy had instantaneously transformed into a thief and a runaway. Her wild heart beat faster than the wheels turned round on Shep’s darling Dodge Fury as they sped north, and she didn’t dare look back as they left The San Fernando Valley behind.

During quiet days when Shep was away Lindy would often sit alone by the banks of the mighty river just yards away from their back door. Memories of the bridgeless city she left behind would cause her to lose track of time. Under the canopy of giant trees and impossibly green wild undergrowth she would loll idly on the dock, helplessly batting at persistent horseflies and mosquitoes, marveling at the scarcity of such creatures in her arid homeland. Her little brother’s face, the sound of the rushing traffic, the splashing screeching children in the apartment building’s swimming pool, the feel of the plastic straps of the lounge chair under her oily thighs, the scent of coconut, these memories haunted and troubled, and in some strange way, cheered her. Dink had been three years old when she left, he would be twelve now. Did he even remember her? Were they still living in The Valley? The old phone number had been disconnected. When Lindy told Shep that she wanted to find her mother his scowl gave way to a full-on giggle-fest, fueled by his nightly six-pack. Why would she want to speak to that whore she used to call a mother? He did not understand the way her mind worked, or if it even worked at all. She was retarded, of that he was sure.

Only yesterday, another child, lost. This time Lindy hadn’t even told Shep about having missed two periods. She didn’t tell him about the cramping and the blood. It was a blessing that he had three weeks work, logging in the bush, always leaving before it got light. The thirteenth miscarriage took place at sunrise, in bed. She had to wash the bedding in the river. Without a car she had no way of getting to the Laundromat. She hung the sheets and blankets out to dry from a clothesline that ran between two stands of thick jack pines.

Lindy called information for Reseda California, and hearing that no Renee Jacobs could be found listed, she decided to try Nina White. Nina had lived in apartment 28; her daughter Kelly had been Lindy’s best friend for several years during elementary school. Nina answered the phone. Her voice had not changed. Still as raspy and breathy as ever, she croaked, “Hi there,” using a familiar greeting.

“Nina,” Lindy squeaked, her mind racing, “it’s me, it’s Lindy. Do you remember?”

“Oh, my, God! Lindy Jacobs? Of course I remember. They’re still looking for you.”

“Me?”

“Where on earth are you girl? I can’t believe this, you’re alive!”

“I ran away Nina,” Lindy said.

“But why? You were a straight A student, and Dink, you were so devoted to Dink!”

Lindy didn’t want to give her reasons; she resorted to supplying facts. “A guy talked me into leaving with him. He was older. He is older. I’m in Canada, still with him.”

“Jesus, how much older is he?”

“Now? He’s thirty-six.”

“That kidnapper. Your poor mother. Do you know the effect your going missing had on her life? It’s 1978; it’s been such a long time. Why do you call now? After all this time?”

Lindy almost hung up, but instead asked what she needed to know, “I would like to talk to Mom,” she said. “Do you have her number?”

Nina sighed, “I do. She’s remarried, to a super nice guy, an engineer. They live in Santa Monica. Dink’s a big brother now; you have two half-sisters. Maybe I should call Renee for you. Soften the blow. Hearing from you will come as quite a shock, you realize that, don’t you?”

“I really, really need to talk to her,” Lindy said. “Now.”

“Are you alright?” Nina asked. “I could call the authorities for you.”

Lindy began to shake. Fear took hold and she slammed the receiver down. The only thing to do? Hide. But, Shep would see the call to California listed on the phone bill. There would be no hiding from him, or his heavy fists.

When the fever took hold Lindy had trouble getting out of the platform waterbed. Dreams carried her to swampy snake-ridden locales and she woke from the nightmare shivering madly. A trip to the hospital would be necessary. The reclusive next-door neighbor Ethel, the woman with the long gray hair and knowing eyes, had readily agreed to drive her. “Thank you,” Lindy said, after they arrived at the emergency exit, just as an attendant settled her into a wheelchair. Ethel’s wrinkled face zoomed in much closer to Lindy’s own face, and then she whispered, “Leave him. Leave him while you can.”

After the procedure the doctor asked Lindy, “Is your boyfriend a draft dodger?”

“I don’t really know,” Lindy said. “Maybe.”

“You’ll never have children now,” he said gravely.

“Shep wanted five,” she told him.

The doctor shook his head. “How many miscarriages, altogether?”

“Thirteen.”

“Good Lord,” he cried. His hands were everything Shep’s weren’t. Small and smooth, he used them in the most measured purposeful manner. “A beautiful girl like you,” he said, slicing through the air with a swift wave, “how did you end up with that brute?”

Now, Lindy had heard this before, that she was beautiful. And she supposed that she was, but the notion seemed abstract. Farrah Fawcett was beautiful, and so was Brook Shields. It seemed impossible that anyone would deem her as such. Bashful as ever, she looked down at the blanket while answering, “I’ve been with Shep for nine years, since I was fifteen. You see; I ran away from home with him.”

The flight from Vancouver to Los Angeles was uneventful. Lindy counted the number of backyard swimming pools she spotted as they prepared to land at LAX. When she caught sight of Renee as she reluctantly approached her, Lindy thought that her pretty mother looked much the same, save for a few crow’s feet. But Dink, he called himself Dirk. One letter change, he had pointed out. Her little brother’s long blonde hair and cool dude surfer look took Lindy’s breath away. She went to hug him, and he said, “Glad you’re back, butt hole.”

“Dirk,” Renee snapped, “What a thing to say.”

“He’s right,” Lindy said, squeezing Dink in a tight embrace. “I am a butt hole.”

The husband, his name was Art, he stood next to his two little daughters and merely grinned.

On the walk out to the parking structure one of her brand new sisters reached up and slid her tiny hand in Lindy's. Five sweet sticky sister fingers brought an immediate rush of tears to her grateful green eyes. Even the smoggy air smelled good on the day she got back home.




RIP Farrah Fawcett Feb 21, 1947 – June25, 2009












All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Gems, One Can Only Hope

A friend asked me, don't you feel obligated to entertain, now that you've started blogging? Isn't it a burden? 

Well, now that you mention it...

But...

It's like this, at my house, if you drop by you can bet that I'll fix you something yummy. I'll do my best to make you feel at home. When, and if you decide to blog, it's pretty much the same story. Now, I am totally amazed how most of the bloggers I read manage to keep up the daily grind with such finesse, truly I just can't imagine how they do it. Life gets in my way, and then there's my writing, which sucks up most of my energy. I'm afraid that leaves me with very few gems to sprinkle around here, hence the name Lizzy's Bits and Bytes. 

The stories I post here are but little nuggets. They are meant to be teasers for THE REAL THING. The book, which is coming soon, I promise. 

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

THE RIVER'S EDGE

On three separate occasions Paula fought back the urge to tell her mother-in-law that she was considering leaving her son. She fought back the urge to present her case, to make a concerted effort to persuade Marge to see things her way. How futile the effort would have proven to be. Phillip was Marge’s baby boy, and naturally Marge would have taken his side immediately. But Paula was so enamored and fond of her mother-in-law, it hurt to think that they might some day be alienated from one another.

Paula knew very well that most women considered Philip quite "a catch", an architect with a significant income, and so damn tall, loyal as a big goofy puppy. Paula seemed to be the only one that could see that Philip Poundstone was only masquerading around like an advertisement for some sort of poster-perfect husband. In reality he was far too remote. Distant. Uncaring, and the truth be known, boring as well. If she had to sit and listen to yet another lecture about “mindful spending” Paula swore she’d explode. She’d spontaneously combust. 

What on Earth was wrong with changing the bed linens to suit her mood? The Spring-inspired damask duvet cover, pillow shams and bed-skirt just didn’t suit Paula’s summer frame of mind, it was that simple. When she’d spotted the bright and sunny floral print with bursts of yellow at Macy’s the other day, she just had to make the change. And, since the old draperies hadn’t matched, she had no other choice but to replace them too. Philip had taken her American Express card away. That overtly hostile act just might have been the last straw. 

Paula called a realtor, and went to look at a small quaint cottage uptown that she's spotted in the paper. She had no trouble picturing life in the cottage, away from Phillip and Marcus, her son. Marcus had grown into a moody teenager with volcanic pimples and plenty of attitude. She would leave them to each other. Why not? It was time she became independent, maybe she'd go back to school and study something. Just what, she wasn’t sure. Maybe interior design. Maybe nursing.

Standing at her massive granite kitchen island chopping veggies for a quick stir-fry, she pictured the cottage. Sure, it was pint-sized. And the kitchen cabinets had been painted so many times over in seventy-plus years that the doors would not close shut anymore, and some of the lovely period tiles were cracked, and the sink had been stained, but still, the house had felt so cozy, so cute, so feminine. Paula could go shabby chic and never worry about having a man around to turn up his nose at her choice of cabbage-rose-covered-wallpaper, or white slipcovers. Now, that kind of freedom might just be the ticket! Her imagination ran away with her. Paula pictured herself sipping tea and entertaining all the new friends she would make at school. No more dealings with Phillip’s business partner’s wives. No more listening to them go on and on about how lucky she was. What a great guy Phillip was. What a lovely house he had designed for Paula. How much they envied her bucolic life at the river’s edge.

When Philip waltzed through the door and announced that he was taking her out to dinner Paula pointed to the pile of veggies sitting in the bowl before her. “Just put them in the fridge,” he said. “They’ll keep.” Reluctantly, she slipped on her sweater and followed her husband out to the Range Rover. He drove to The Cheesecake Factory, which struck Paula as odd, since their son was fond of the restaurant, and Philip had declared the eatery too noisy and crowded each and every time he’d given in to Marcus's will.

Phillip ordered a martini and Paula ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio. Then she watched him reach into the pocket of his sports jacket and pull something out. As Philip ceremoniously presented Paula with her American Express card, he said softly, “I’m sorry Dear, I shouldn’t have acted like such a jerk the other day. The bedroom looks great. Forgive me? For being such a brute?”

Paula picked up the card in one deft move. All that lovely buying power reinstated. “I guess I was a little extravagant,” she declared.

“I flew off the handle over nothing,” Phillip said. “I’ve been stressed out about the firm losing several commissions. But that big job I told you about just come through. So, I’m feeling better about our finances.”

Paula slid the card into her Coach bag. Why had he chosen The Cheesecake Factory then, when they could have gone to that little French place she liked so much? The restaurant with the white tablecloths that served the Kobe beef with béarnaise sauce. Oh well, Paula didn’t really mind all that much. Life was back on track.






All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.