The List

Bits & Bytes About The Author of This Blog (in no particular order)

Others find me bossy at times, or exacting, or both.

I was my mother’s wife. She was a hard-working single mom, and from the age of ten I took over the grocery shopping, cooking, and a good deal of the housework. Voluntarily, I might add.

I adore most children but won’t put up with horrid behavior.

If patience is a virtue then I’m virtuous.

A peculiar darkish brown Florida-shaped birthmark about two inches long appeared on my neck the first time my mother applied Coppertone suntan lotion on my six year old body. Said birthmark had faded and mysteriously disappeared by the time I was twelve.

In true Virgo fashion it’s usually all or nothing at all with me.

My French Grandmother would buy multiple packages of M & M’s so she could fill a bowl with red ones, (my favorites) just for me. Her other grandkids could have cared less; the color of candies they wolfed down bore little or no importance. After the bad things I’ve heard about FD & C Red Dye #40 I sure hope I don’t come down with cancer!

Under no certain terms am I willing to discuss politics or religion at the dinner table.

My mother never got over how good my memory was. I could recount events that happened when I was a baby with great detail.

Upon earning over three dollars one fine sunny day after setting up a row of TV trays and selling cast offs to passers by: mostly miss-matched glassware, old issues of Reader’s Digest, odds and ends from the junk drawer in the mudroom, doll clothes, and my outgrown sweater covered in fuzz-balls, I immediately ran down to Gordon’s market, a corner store where I frequently squandered collected pennies, to purchase a jar of maraschino cherries. My red food fixation rearing it’s ugly head again. And I sat down at the curb right there in front of the market to feast on foodstuff that I’d previously eaten only one at a time. I learned that “one at a time” was a fine approach to the ingestion of something so sweet and syrupy. I think I managed to down about six cherries before decided to pitch the jar in the nearby trash can.

Cooking relaxes me.

The E, L, N, and most of the M are worn off of the keyboard on my Mac.

When brushing my teeth I almost always close my eyes.

White walls and blank pages have the same effect on me, I want to fill them with color and life.

I’ll stop here. That’s enough bits & bytes for today.









All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Oh my, a Pulitzer!

I'm sure most of you have heard by now, they’ve announced the winners of the Pulitzer Prize. When I was twelve I thought I would win one. Yes, I really did. Sweet ignorance of youth clouded my understanding of just how excellent a piece of writing would have to be to qualify for such an illustrious prize. The expectations are so high that some years they don’t even choose a winner! My creative writing teacher thought I was brilliant, and I believed her. I hadn’t learned about humility. Up until that point I felt as brilliant as Laura Ingalls Wilder. How hard could it be to pen a lovely little book? Just think up a story and string lots of sentences together to get my point across—a piece of cake—surely. Ha!

We grow up and then come across those that are so excellent that they blow us away and in turn bring out massive insecurities and doubt regarding our own abilities. I know I have. Writers of fine literary fiction have this effect on me. Two of my favorite authors wrote two of my favorite books, and just happened to win the prestigious award. Anne Tyler for Breathing Lessons, and Larry McMurtry for Lonesome Dove.

Here’s an excerpt from Breathing Lessons: She was wearing her best dress—blue and white sprigged, with cape sleeves—and crisp black pumps, on account of the funeral. The pumps were only medium heeled but slowed her down some anyway; she was more used to crepe soles. Another problem was that the crotch of her pantyhose had somehow slipped to about the middle of her thighs, so she had to take shortened, unnaturally level steps like a chunky windup toy wheeling along the sidewalk.

From the get go I couldn’t help but root for Tyler’s well-meaning character Maggie, I felt embarrassed for her, and her poor long-suffering husband Ira, what a champ! If you haven’t read this book, you have cheated yourself out of a great experience.

The beginning of Lonesome Dove: When Augustus came out on the porch the blue pigs were eating a rattlesnake—not a very big one. It had probably just been crawling around looking for shade when it ran into the pigs. They were having a fine tug of war with it, and its rattling days were over. The sow had it by the neck, and the shoat had the tail.

Man, McMurtry had me at hello with that opening! I have lent my copy out so many times it’s beyond dog-eared. A borrower dropped it in the bathtub, another spilled coffee all over it. Still, I keep it on my bookshelf, like a prize.

This year Elizabeth Strout won for Olive Kitteridge. A sample follows: She nodded, smiling through her glasses like a thirteen-year-old girl. Again, he pictured her trailer, the two of them like overgrown puppies tumbling together; he could not have said why this gave him the particular kind of happiness it did, like liquid gold being poured through him.

I downloaded the first chapter of Olive Kitteridge onto my Kindle last night. And I will buy this book; the first chapter is wonderful. Well, I think it would have to be—wouldn’t it—to win and all?

Tell us, what Pulitzer prize winner is your favorite?



All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Shout out to David McMahon at Author Blog! Now I know what POTD means :)

Sam and Gil, A Love Story

Sam-the-lawyer met Gil-the-seamstress-for-the-band in a gay bar. So typical, but mercifully their relationship was not. Sam considered himself to be a plain-wrap kind of a guy, he was forty-nine, and nervous about turning “you know—that number.” Gil was only thirty-three and had no idea what plain-wrap meant. Gil bore absolutely no resemblance to ordinary—because Gil was anything but plain-wrap. He was wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. He was cominatcha. He was all about glorious Technicolor!

Don’t think these glaring differences didn’t get in the way now and then. Sam was a realist, and so did his best to almost always view his situation with brutal honesty. Sam and Gil’s differences did tend to wreak havoc on their domestic bliss. For instance, Sam had hired a straight (yes, straight) decorator (the fabulously famous Mitt Schell) to create a serene, austere look for his loft-condo in Long Beach. And Sam adored the atonal vibes of the various grays, the cocoa wool sectional, the sisal carpeting, the glass countertops and stainless steel cabinetry. He held the highest admiration for the linear composition of the furnishings, and the deliberate use of fine art in such a measured, minimalistic fashion.

Only love had the audacity to barge in and introduce turquoise feathers, fuchsia rhinestones, gaudy chandeliers shellacked in black, horrendous bogus Warhol rip-offs, and garish super-shag throw rugs into the mix. Only LOVE! Sam had waited for love and wouldn’t you know it—he found it long after giving up on the idea. His soul mate turned out to be a Dancing With The Stars watching Pilate’s enthusiast, with a penchant for tofu and sake, a hummer of show tunes, a man that called his mother before breakfast every morning, a man that cried over spilt milk. Gil.

The third time they got together, to spend an afternoon sightseeing, Sam pulled into the Denny’s parking lot and Gil threw a fit. Seemed, he did not do Denny’s. After dragging his new boyfriend inside screaming and kicking, Sam explained to Gil how it worked over a Moon Over My Hammy, how he didn’t do drama. How important his work was to him, how important it was to start slow, to learn all about one another before jumping in with both feet. “I can’t believe you’re eating that,” Gil said, glaring at the villainous sandwich, his contemptuous eyes as green as the crisp parsley on his plate of tomatoes. “Save my soul, food should not be named after songs, after all.”

Sam wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Huh?” He took the bait.

“Moon Over Miami,” Gil said, “you know…Joe Burke, Edgar Leslie, 1935?”

“No, I don’t know.” Sam said emphatically, “Who the hell does? You’re the encyclopedia of useless knowledge.”

“That I am,” Gil said, his tapered fingers toyed with the edge of Sam’s sweater. “Fair warning, don’t play Trivial Pursuit with me.”

Sam had never cared to play board games. When he was a kid he thought of them as bored games. “Don’t worry; I won’t.”

They became inseparable—the only obstacle in their way—Sam’s insecurity regarding the difference in their ages. One night he decided to bring the divergence out in the open, just as they were about to dive into Gil’s heavenly homemade Cesar salad, he dredged up the courage to ask, “How long do you give us? Before it dawns on you that I’m too old?”

“What kind of question is that?” Gil let the wooden salad servers drop ceremoniously into the matching over-sized bowl.

“I have to prepare myself,” Sam elevated his chin somewhat, a telling gesture.

Gil crossed his arms, huffed, and then asked, “Okay, prepare yourself for what?”

“Come on,” Sam urged. “Look at you. Look at me.”

Gil launched into a tirade about how it always came down to appearances with gay men. How sick and tired he was about the whole focus on what was on the outside of the person, instead of what was on the inside. Besides, he felt free to point out, Sam looked to be forty—tops. And he was handsome and in shape. Although Gil did believe that Sam’s poor arteries were more than likely well on their way to being clotted all to hell with gunked up muck as a result of his poor food choices. That was the night that it was decided that Gil would move out of the cockroach-ridden apartment that he lived in just off Sunset in Hollywood. He would be free of the tyranny of the Russian mobsters and ladies of the night that harangued him at his dark alley parking space as he came and went daily. They would be partners. Neither had ever lived with anyone but their parents before.

When the opportunity presented itself for Gil to work on a new movie with the well-known stylist and costume designer Sally May Wu, he reluctantly took the position at Sam’s insistence. “You’d be foolish to pass this up,” Sam admonished.

Gil stood in front of the bureau sliding various rings on to his well-manicured fingers. “I don’t like change. I hate to leave The Lords, I really do. This is so hard.”

Sam put his hand on Gil’s shoulder. He was so short, so compact, so unlike any man that Sam had been with before. “Change can be a good thing. The band will go on without you. It’s a movie Gil. A movie that millions will see. You’ll be dressing Greg Kinnear and Cameron Diaz. Jesus, get real.”

“I know, I know,” Gil muttered as he smoothed his shirt. “You’re right. I should be excited but instead I’m freaking out.”

“Why aren’t you jealous?” Gil asked Sam one night after he’d arrived home after eleven. Sam had been working on a case. His laptop, and stacks of papers were spread out over the silk bedspread. “After all, I’m never here.” Gil added. “Sally and I are practically joined together at the hip, but you never bitch or moan about my being away!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sam said. “You know I miss you. I tell you all the time.”

Gil did have dark circles under his eyes. Sam couldn’t help but notice that he’d taken to chewing his cuticles, and how he hadn’t shaved in days. Maybe the pressure was too much.

“Mother gives me a hard time. She’s pissed I hardly ever call.”

Sam threw his arms up in disbelief. “It’s called work. Work! Your mother needs to understand that. Gil, this is an important career builder, the real deal, a movie!”

“Yeah. But what do you do without me? You work too much. You eat crap from Jack in the Box. You drink too much white wine. You watch Law and Order. I guess I want you to complain about loneliness. Convince me you love me!”

Sam smiled at his harried partner. “When you’re finished with this job, we’ll go on vacation,” he promised. “We’ll fly somewhere. So you can rest.”

And they did. They chose Paris. Gil said that everyone should visit The City of Light at least once; that they should go there with someone they truly love. He cried when he described the view outside the window of their hotel room to his mother over the phone. “Oh Mother,” he gushed, “Paris is all it’s cracked up to be, and more! It’s Disneyland for grown-ups!”

Sam got a kick out of Gil’s comment. Disneyland was Gil’s favorite place. So, for him to compare Paris to Disneyland meant that he was thrilled. All Sam wanted was for Gil to be truly happy.

Strolling through Montmartre arm in arm, Gil singing some old Gershwin tune softly with Sam humming along, they belonged to the night and to each other.









All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

One On One

My Impromptu Interview With God’s Assistant During My Dream Last Night

Elizabeth—Where is God right now at this very minute?

G’s A—Come on, is that the best you’ve got?

Elizabeth—It’s a legitimate question for a Thursday.

G’s A—Fine. I’ll answer. Everywhere. As expected.

Elizabeth—Is that right?

G’s A—Yes.

Elizabeth—Is God male or female?

G’s A—Technically female, but also male.

Elizabeth—I don’t get it, what exactly does that mean?

G's A—It means that God is both masculine and feminine. But more mother than father.

Elizabeth—Why do human beings tend to attribute more masculine traits to God then?

G’s A—I don’t know. It wasn’t always that way.

Elizabeth—What does God intend to do about the mess the world’s in?

G’s A—It’s safe to say that God is taking a wait and see approach.

Elizabeth—Is that prudent?

G’s A—I’m not in the habit of judging my boss. But I will say this; I did ask God to do away with time. (At this point God’s Assistant’s right wing began to shake uncontrollably and his left hand reached around to steady it.) I hope I’m not overstepping my boundaries by confessing that calendars and timepieces make absolutely no sense to me. All those dates, digital read-outs, the stressful restrictions and limitations seemed so unnecessary to me. I can see how harried all that lost time could make a person feel. What a rat race it creates. 

Elizabeth—And…how did God respond to your request?

G’s A—He explained that you human’s need a linear timeline, how it’s tied in to your DNA.

Elizabeth—(I was about to ask about world hunger but decided to find out more about DNA) What is DNA?

G’s A—I like to call DNA, DON’T KNOW ANYTHING. Not to be patronizing, but you human beings kill me.

Elizabeth—How’s that?

G’s A—With your kvetching, your nervous breakdowns, your infighting, your inhumanity towards your own kind. It’s appalling. Where God finds the strength to even stay in touch with Earth is beyond me. See, it’s a good thing that I’m not in charge.

Elizabeth—Some would claim that God has forsaken the Earth.

G’s A—(G’s A’s dark eyes grew darker. G’s A’s wings spread out, leaving me in shadow) Be careful what you wish for. Things would get very ugly if God deserted you people. Very ugly.

Elizabeth—Don’t get bent out of shape. I’m just asking…

G’s A—I can’t help it. I'm very passionate. Look, God’s busy. Not all creation is bent on self-destructing you know. There are beings in this universe of pure light that actually give back to God. Human’s, they just ask and ask and ask.

Elizabeth—There are good humans. Aren’t there?

G’s A—Of course. But sometimes it’s nearly impossible to hear the good humans prayers over the din of the whiners and evildoers. Try to see it from our perspective. Heaven’s a long way a way.

Elizabeth—Is that our fault?

G’s A—What is, simply is.

Elizabeth—I want to take back a message to the people. Something positive.

G’s A—(Arms crossed, wings now tucked in) Let me think. I’ll leave you with this, try to dredge up a little excitement when you greet the new day. Savor that cup of morning coffee. Coffee beans are at the top of God’s proud creative moments—right up there with butterflies. Have a little gratitude, is that too much to ask?

Elizabeth—I don’t think so. I think I understand what your saying.

G’s A—Do you? It’s not that hard.

Elizabeth—We all can't be angels, you know.

G’s A—Word.

God's assistant disappeared, so the interview ended there. If I ever get back in touch I promise to be more prepared. I’ll ask better questions, I’ll probe deeper.



Artwork courtesy of Michelangelo--b. 1475 d. 1564 Roma. Last Judgement All Rights Reserved, Heaven.
All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

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 to toss dirty clothes on the floor of the bedroom, leaving her free to scarf takeout from Styrofoam containers. Leaving her alone. What Dorothy couldn’t get used to, what she really hated about widowhood was being the one that had to make all the day-to-day decisions. Their son Peter handled the funeral arrangements, immediately afterward he’d flown home to Baltimore, home to his family. During the marriage Dorothy never paid the bills, she never balanced the checkbook, nor had she filed insurance papers or tax records. These tasks were not her problem. Now they were.

Dorothy wouldn’t be so idle 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. Spending the years 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, filthy slovenly habits in general. It was inevitable that she go straight to hell in a hand-basket without her good husband around to keep her on a straight and narrow path.

Really, she needed to find something, anything. Someone. How long could she stew in her juices? Reaching fifty had taught her something, the 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 the sweats and into something clean would make her feel better about herself.

Showered and dressed, she reached for the phone book, looked up a maid agency, dialed 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: learning how to knit, writing bad poetry, going back to school and finally getting her degree in art history, studying the Kabala, volunteering to read to old people at the nursing home, joining 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. But, she would need a computer. Conner had one on his desk at work and claimed that he didn’t need to stare at a PC screen at home as well, so they had never owned one.

Dorothy purchased a laptop that afternoon—an Apple McIntosh. Jeff, the 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. His name was 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 order. When the waitress returned she handed over the Bellini and ordered 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. She lost a few pounds, bought new clothes, and changed her hairstyle for the first time in years. The men came in a constant parade. LA was full of them: dentists, pool contractors, florists, musicians, actors, teachers, and one unemployed bartender named Floyd that she took an immediate shining to. No matter that Floyd didn’t have a home of his own, (he lived with his ailing mother so he could care for her), no matter that he didn’t have much money, (due to bad business deals and a nasty drawn-out divorce), no matter that he was a slob. Dorothy didn’t mind at all.




All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Micro Story For A Friday Night

Camille's Fiance

Only in darkness did he feel at ease, sitting for hours just staring out the window. The cold quiet night soothed his growing apprehension. He only asked Camille to marry him because he thought she would say no. He’d been certain that she would refuse to be stuck with the likes of him for the rest of her life. But she hadn't said no. She'd said yes, yes, yes. Breathlessly. Miraculously.

He parked his car the next street over and entered his apartment building from the back alley, so that Camille wouldn’t spot him if she happened by. Cloaked in the dark room, drinking Patron straight out of the bottle, he hid from her. From his fiancé. God he wished that he hadn't rushed in. Just the thought of going through with the marriage made him feel like throwing up. Or maybe it was the tequila on an empty stomach. No matter, he could never back out now. Her mother and his mother had bonded over wedding plans. Checks had been written, deposits made.

If only he wasn’t a sucker for silky elbows and witty banter. If only Camille hadn’t decided to sing those intoxicating Cole Porter lyrics into his ear the night that he’d fallen to pieces: You'd be so nice to come home to, You'd be so nice by the fire. If only the girl wasn’t double jointed. If only he hadn’t fallen in love. If he was so in love, then why didn’t he want to follow through with the steps necessary to see to it that he would always be the one that Camille came home to? Good question. Maybe he was too plastered to come up with a suitable answer. As he thought of breaking it off with her his woozy mind raced to imagine what breaking it off would mean. If he didn’t marry her somebody else would. Another man would take his place. That dirty bastard would watch The Royal Tenenbaums over and over with her because it was Camille's hands-down favorite movie. He’d be the one to send for Chinese food delivery. He’d be the one to sit in Tomorrowland licking a lollipop she held shaped liked Mickey Mouse while listening to her critique the fashion choices of passing pedestrians. Camille’s fiancé nearly went half crazy imaging that other man making love to her. Drunk and uncertain about how to proceed, he passed out on the bed.

 His phone vibrated on the pillow next to his face sometime around two o’clock in the morning, waking him. “There you are,” Camille crooned into his ear. “Here I am,” he replied, “and I always will be.” 

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Correlating Professions

The relationship between interior design and fiction writing may strike you as incongruent, but closer scrutiny reveals multiple similarities.

I’ve been working on a project: transform a drab 80’s apartment into a usable, more modern space.

I begin each design task by immersing myself totally in all aspects of each project. I start with the client/clients. Who are they? What do they want? I explore their desires and expectations. I encourage them to assert their personality and vision. We use the interview process to discover the spark, a theme so to speak, the overall cohesive view. We embark on a journey together. I become the facilitator of my client’s hopes and dreams for the space. I become the overseer. A steward. And I take my job very seriously.

When I start a story (whether short fiction or a novel) I must follow similar steps. My characters must reveal their desires and expectations. I’ve got to perform a delicate balancing act, or they won’t change and evolve. In my opinion, characters that don’t change or evolve make lousy protagonists. I’ve got to build a world for them to navigate in. I’ve got to come up with a workable, believable, relevant theme. It’s paramount to see the thing through to the end—work through the problems, the mistakes, the frustration and conflicts—no matter what. I cannot quit. I become obsessed. I eat, drink, and sleep in their world, until I’m satisfied that I have delivered a good story.

I do the same with a design task. I eat, drink, and sleep with the project until I’m satisfied that my client’s desires and expectations have been met. I make other’s priorities my own. It’s a selfless act, in a way. I’m not choosing materials and floor plans and furniture to fit my taste and lifestyle, I’m channeling someone else’s.

As an author I have to bend to my character’s will, but I have to exercise control over them as well. I must maintain a delicate balance between being led and leading.

In the end, the outcome reflects my ability to bring into focus that which might of remained obscure. The outcome is the product of my imagination. And I often feel that there is something godlike in the mix, if I can be so bold to suggest.

***Please note: the photo pictured is meant to denote a modern living room and is not a photo of my project. I will be posting before and after shots when the apartment is finished and decorated.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Going Home

I'm returning home tomorrow. Ten days is a long time to be away from home without my husband. I miss him terribly. Being married to your best friend does have advantages, but if you leave both your spouse and your best friend for a prolonged period of time you will experience a double dog dose of longing. It's easy to take such a relationship for granted, once you've been in it for many years. Being separated for over a week drives the point home, there is no relationship that compares to a fine marriage. My, don't I sound Biblical?

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

A Quick Note From Up North

I grew up in the Pacific Northwest. I was born in Seattle Washington. If you’ve ever visited Seattle, or simply flown over, then you know that it is a green, hilly city, surrounded by plenty of ocean and dotted with many lakes. I began high school in Portland Oregon, which is a city of many bridges stretching across the mighty Columbia River and it’s many tributaries.

When I was sixteen my divorced mother decided to move my sister and I up to Canada, where she had family. Mom was born in Saskatchewan. We moved way up to Northern British Columbia, to a small town. Terrace, in just about every single way, resembled our former environs in that there was an abundance of evergreens, blue skies, mountains, rivers and lakes, but all those natural wonders were super-sized and more wild. Take for instance, the river that the town had built up around, The Skeena. What a river it was! And the towering surrounding mountains were an ever-ominous presence. The forests, in those days, were thick and untouched. In the fall, rain fell harder. In the winter, snowflakes were larger and fell longer. In the summer, sun felt hotter, and merciless mosquitoes and black flies ruled our lives. Whatever we did we did not leave the screen door open!

I became a resident of Southern California at the age of eighteen when I joined my father in Orange County. That’s 35 years ago now. I must say that those years rolled by an old-timey Nickelodeon movie. For the first ten years I spent in various locations throughout the L.A. basin I longed to leave the brown, smoggy, bridgeless city and head back up north. But, alas, ties to loved ones and family kept me anchored. I grew to love the varied surrounding landscapes. 

Now I live in the foothills of The San Bernardino Mountains, which is considered the boondocks but that’s fine by me. I don’t miss the clogged freeways and crowds, but I’m close enough to drive in and enjoy what L.A. has to offer.

Right now I am at my sister’s in Victoria BC Canada, enjoying the northwest and it’s beauty once again. She’s only a few blocks from the ocean. Right outside the window where I sit stands an enormous evergreen, (it looks to be some species of cedar to me), and I feel as if I’m home.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Leaving On A Jet Plane

I'll be heading for Victoria, British Columbia, Canada tomorrow. I will bring my computer but will be working on a design job up there so I don't know how much writing I'll get to. But I will blog about Victoria, which is a lovely city. Down here the temps have been in the seventies, even reaching the eighties but I guess it's colder than a witches tit up there. I will have to adapt! Maybe spring will arrive with me, I'll drag it up from Sunny California. So then I can see the flowers bloom, as in the picture posted here. Victoria is so pretty in the spring.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

SWALLOWING AGONY

Can’t see what good it does to say so now, but the truth is, I never liked the bastard from day one. My son brought Jim Mead fishing, and I ended up spending an entire afternoon out on the boat with the two of them. “Gee Dad,” Adam began, just after we’d dropped Jim off in front of his palatial house, a squall had forced us to give up the ghost and head on home, “You sure were quiet today.”

I couldn’t very well confess to Adam that I didn’t like his new friend, and for no particular reason either. I just flat out didn’t care for the damn kid. You meet certain people and they put you off. It’s as if you can’t stand the way they smile, what they choose to talk about, the sound of their voice. Certain people just can’t help but rub you the wrong way. “Was I that quiet?”

“You sure were,” he said, studying my reaction. “The quieter you were, the more Jim talked. I think all that silence made him nervous. Plus, he’s never been fishing before.”

“Ah, sorry, I got a lot on my mind these days.”

Adam ran his bony hand up and down his pant leg and said, “Yeah Dad, I know.”

“I thought being out on the lake would take the edge off. And it did. Thanks for coming.” Many of my friends couldn’t get their kids to go anywhere with them. I was glad my son still wanted to fish with the old man. It seemed petty for me to have developed an aversion to his pal the way I had.

“I’m glad,” he said. “I know it’s hard, being forced to move out for no good reason, having to live alone and stuff. I can’t help but be mad at Mom. She just doesn’t make any sense. I can’t see how she’s better off without you around.”

“I make her feel bad about herself.” Discussing my problems with his mother was absolutely not the right thing to do. But I couldn’t seem to stop myself. My mouth started running like a sick bird’s ass. “I’m such a fool, when she asked me if I thought she was too fat, I said yes. That was my first mistake. And then she told me that her weight gain made her feel more substantial, and what did I do? I scoffed. Not a smart move. She said I wasn’t interested in listening to her feelings. Even now. I hear her wrong. I can’t seem to find my footing with that woman.” I needed to replace my wiper blades. It was raining so hard that I could barely make out the road ahead of us through the torrent of water rushing over the windshield.

From the seat next to me I sensed Adam’s breathing quicken. He didn’t deserve to listen while I unloaded my crap. I knew that. “But you guys used to get along,” he pointed out. I felt bad, glancing over momentarily I saw his forehead crinkle up.

“I thought we did,” I said, turning my attention back to the blurred view. “But your mother told me that she was unhappy with me from the beginning. Seems I’ve always been terribly evasive, that I’m a snide jerk. In these last years especially. I promised to change—but she’s not interested in waiting for a miracle. Those are her words, not mine.”

When I pulled up to my old house a familiar sadness strangled what little warmth I had left inside. I began to shiver, said goodbye to my son, and struggled to hold back a sob. Swallowing agony down like some nasty horse pill.

The next time I saw Jim he was standing outside my old house on the lawn talking to my ex wife. When they spotted me driving up the road their smiles turned into frowns. What could the kid possibly have against me? Surely Donna wouldn’t badmouth me to Adam’s friend. Would she?

“What’s up?” I asked, once I’d climbed out of the Corvette. “Where’s Adam?”

“He’s got practice,” Donna told me, using that exasperated tone she liked to use when she found herself disappointed with my actions. “It’s Wednesday Russ.”

“Oh crap,” I shook my head. “I was supposed to go to the school. Too much on my mind, I guess. I’ll hurry over there.”

“No point going now, you’re too late. I’ll call him and tell him to ride home with Mandy.” Donna pulled her cell phone out of her pocket.

I felt like a fool. “Hold on,” I said. “Adam can stay put for a few minutes. I’ll rush over there. We’re going to the movies. It just makes sense for him stay where he is.”

I waited for Donna to get a hold of Adam. In the meantime Jim asked me how I liked my car. He said his father had considered buying a Corvette, but decided on a Viper instead. Well, the guy was a freaking oncologist. I’m only a lowly finance manager at the Chevy dealership.

Adam would wait for me. I headed back towards my car. Anxious to get in one last dig, Donna called out to me, “Don’t forget where you’re going.” I bristled to see Donna and Jim yucking it up at my expense as I drove away. Another reason to dislike him lengthened my list. That, and the fact that the little pecker-head had figured out how to make Donna smile.

By summer I had come to the conclusion that it was time to move on. I would never return to live in my old house. We were going to sell. Donna had her eye on a condo complex near Universal Studios. I had finally broken down and hired a divorce lawyer to make sure that I wouldn’t be taken to the cleaners.

At the end of June I stopped by the house to pick up my son because we were driving up to San Francisco. I thought Adam would get a kick out of the city. Jim helped load his bags. “Have fun,” he mumbled. “I wish I was driving up the coast with my dad. As if that would ever happen.”

We were flying north on the 101 and Adam said, “I feel sorry for Jim. His dad’s never home and his mother’s a bimbo.”

“I’m sure they’ll take him somewhere this summer.”

“No Dad. They won’t. They just send him off to New York to visit his big sister. His parents live in their own little world. They pretty much ignore him.”

“That’s too bad,” I say. “At least you know that your mother and I love you.”

I agreed to go on a date with a rather forward girl from work. Amber was a shapely divorcee with a couple of little kids, quite a bit younger than I was. Despite my efforts to dissuade her from pursuing me she just wouldn’t give up. “Look,” I said, “I’m not ready for a relationship.”

“Me neither,” she said. “I just want to fool around.”

I took Amber at her word. Because there was no way in hell I was about to get involved with a young chick with two little chicks of her own. No way.

We’d gone on a few dates and Amber asked to come over one weekend so she might meet Adam. Warning bells sounded through my distressed brain. “No,” I told her, “we agreed not to drag the kids into this. Remember? Keep it light. No involvement. None of that. You do remember, don’t you?” Of course she claimed that she did but I had my doubts.

On Saturday mornings I always took Adam out for breakfast. He stayed with me almost every weekend unless his mother had something going on. We were sitting at Jerry’s Famous Deli eating pastrami and eggs and I asked him if his mother was seeing anyone. “I couldn’t help noticing that she’s dropped a few pounds, and had her hair styled.”

“Who knows?” Adam’s eyes were so uncharacteristically vacant as he added, “She’s up to something though. I don’t ask because I don’t care.”

Like a fool I let his comment go. I sipped my coffee and changed the subject.

The neighbor heard three shots. Donna and Jim were naked in her bed. Adam had taken aim from the doorway, shooting his mother and his friend point blank with my rifle. Then he turned the smoking gun on himself.

Adam left a note in his room. I read it and then burnt it. My son’s words still haunt me and I wake up at three o’clock in the morning almost every single night. Boatloads of whiskey can’t make me sleep. Neither can those tiny sleeping pills the doctor prescribed. I may never see a full night sleep again. I don’t deserve one.












All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

My Irish Papa

My father was proud of his Irish blood. St. Paddy’s Day was a big deal to him. He always cooked up a batch of corned beef with cabbage and potatoes. And, he would play those same old records. Danny Boy, Irish Eyes Are Smiling. Corny? Maybe, but not to his way of thinking.

Some sort of party was usually thrown. Big or small, it didn’t matter, as long as there was an audience after he’d thrown back a few and was ready to launch into one of his always riveting yarns about the old days and our ancestors.

Papa passed away December 17th, 2009. I can tell you this, we’ll be missing him tonight when we dig into our version of his corned beef and cabbage. We’ll make a toast to his memory and we might even try to do justice while telling one or two of his stories. It’s important that the kids don’t forget where they came from.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

THE RECONSTRUCTION

Neville died at four o’clock in the morning. Darci watched him take his last ragged breath and that was the end of that. She lay her head on the bed next to him and fell asleep. It was her daughter Rose that woke her. A hand on her shoulder, and a voice calling, “Mom. Mom! Wake up.”

Wouldn’t you know it—her neck had a kink? Well, of course, it was almost nine o’clock.

“Daddy’s gone,” Rose said, her face contorting.

“I know,” Darci declared, rising from the chair.

“When?” Rose asked, she was standing at her father’s side, touching his cold cheek.

“A few hours ago.”

“We better call.”

“I suppose we should,” Darci said, feeling sick and tired of the word “should”.

*****

We buried my sweet husband at Forest Lawn, next to our son Slade. Rose was upset with me for leaving on a cruise two weeks after Neville’s funeral. I explained that his long drawn out illness had already provided me with more than enough time to mourn—more than enough. I had willed him to die at the end. I couldn’t wait. Don't get your panties in a bunch, I’m not stupid, I didn’t tell my daughter that I willed him to go. She couldn’t begin to understand.

Neville had always wanted to take an Alaskan cruise but we’d never gotten around to it. He was only forty-six, and like most couples do, we assumed that we had all the time in the world to grow old together. We planned on making fun of each other’s wrinkles and liver spots. But Cancer robbed us of our future together.

I sigh when I sit on the bed in the cabin on the ship. I don’t cry yet. I just sigh. Since Neville wouldn’t stand for cremation I don’t have any ashes to spread. The cruise is my version of moving on. I know a little something about moving on. You don’t lose a child without learning a little something about moving on. Good God. Here I am, on my way to Alaska, and I can’t wait for the ship to pull out of the harbor. I can’t wait to see whales and the icebergs. I can’t wait to eat, drink, and be merry. I can use a little merriness. Is merriness a word? I can’t wait to escape. That’s a better way to put it. I am making a great escape.

I met a couple of ladies the second day out to sea. Frankie and Anita are widows too. We’ve banded together. I guess you could say I belong to a club of sorts. It doesn’t matter that they’re both a good fifteen years older than I am. We find common ground. My new friends are from Seattle. They live in the same condo complex. I tell them about my sprawling acreage, the big house, the animals, and all the responsibility waiting at home. I learn about their old lives, how they’ve managed to pare all that mumbo jumbo down. Things change drastically when you lose your man, they confide. I begin to ponder letting go. Deciding to give the horses and goats to Rose. I make up my mind to sell the house. This information is kept a secret for the time being. The deconstruction and reconstruction of my life is in the planning stages.

The cruise ends and we pledge to keep in touch: Frankie, Anita, and me.

Once home I begin to deconstruct. The son-in-law comes for the animals. I keep the dog. Boss is ancient. He’s on his way out. I could never expect the kids to take him. He pees all over the place and reeks from the inside out. No amount of bathing can improve my dog’s odor. 

I’ve made arrangements to only work a few days a week. It takes weeks to clean out the closets. I use e-bay, Craigslist, The Pennysaver. I purge. Good-bye sterling silver, (who has time to polish silver?) Good-bye Neville’s wardrobe, (many people will benefit from his good taste.) Good-bye books, (I bought an electronic reading device.) Good-bye piano, (I never did get lessons.) Good-bye pool table, (the son-in-law nabbed that one!) Good-bye old life.

“Mom,” Rose says, when she sees how empty the living room is, “I think you better slow down. You aren’t old. You’re only forty-six. When I see you reacting this way I have to wonder if you wouldn’t benefit from some grief counseling. You never went to see anyone after Slade…”

I cut her off. “I’m fine,” I tell her. “Don’t go there.”

This is what happens—right? Change? I’m embracing the inevitable. I’m being proactive in my own life. From here on in I decide to have a say in what I am forced to give up.

“It’s just…”

I cut Rose off again. “Do you want the rug?” I ask, pointing to my mother’s pastel pride and joy. A Persian family of five worked their fingers to the bones for years and years to produce the silken wonder back at the turn of the century.

“Mom!” Rose cries. “That rug’s worth a fortune. Have you lost your mind?”

“If you don’t want it I will sell it,” I say.

“No offense, but the colors don’t match anything in my house.” Rose is staring at the giant pink cabbage roses and the turquoise border. Her brow's all furrowed and I think she might break out in tears. “But, Grandma loved Her Oriental so much.”

“Grandma’s gone,” I say. “I’ll give that rug merchant in San Francisco a call. He’ll want it. The colors are all wrong for your place.”

A week later I bring in a hotshot realtor. “I want to buy your house for myself,” she says, and she hasn't even seen the upstairs.

So I sell the realtor my house for a fair price. Lower than market. Hey, it does my broken heart good, knowing that someone loves the place as much as Neville and I did.

Laugh all you want but I bought a motor home. I finally quit my job, so Boss and I hit the road. I had always wanted to see The Deep South, so we headed east. Funny, how that old dog has adapted to life on the road so well. We'll drive a spell, and then stop to eat lunch. Then I take him for a walk. We get back in the motor home, drive a bit longer, and then stop for the night.

One fine sunny spring day, just outside of Charleston, I pull into McDonald’s for an ice cream cone. I call to Boss, (he just loves chicken McNuggets), but he doesn’t respond. Which isn’t all that unusual. The old boy sleeps so soundly lately. I find a parking place, touch his wiry fur, and I know. The dog has left the building. I get down on the floor for one last hug. Then I feel it, an eruption from way deep inside causes me to make sounds that I never thought I’d be capable of making. Every sad song, every sad movie, every loss and every miserable moment converge to send me right over the edge. I remember my mother talking about those pour souls that can’t hold on and I worry that I have become one. I cry and wail and scream and curse. I throw everything and anything that I can get my hands on. I bang my head against the window. I cannot choose what I will lose. I can only choose what to do next. If Boss smells now he will only smell worse if I don’t do something. So I use my phone to find the address of the closest vet and I drive there and take care of business. After depositing my dog for disposal, I look at the open page of the atlas I decide to drive to The Great Lakes. I have no way of knowing just what will happen next, but then, who the hell does?






All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

IN THE SHADOWS

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SORRY, I'M ATTENDING A MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR MY NEPHEW DAVID

So, I won't be posting for a couple of days. Please feel free to check out the many stories in my archives here on this blog.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Short Story for Sunday

Continue Shopping

How Veronica Earley chose to live her life was nobody’s business—Lydia knew that. Her new boss spent a good deal of time making online purchases that she couldn’t afford. Lydia kept the books, and what bothered her was how duped the boss’s husband Donny was, that gullible semi-retired softy of a man trusted his dynamo mortgage broker wife beyond reason. The Earley’s were headed for certain ruin if Veronica didn’t get a grip on reality and modify her runaway compulsions. They’d borrowed against their house so often in the past that they’d chewed up most of their equity. The market had gone straight in the toilet so they couldn’t sell even if they had a mind to. Lydia performed magic acts on a regular basis juggling Veronica’s finances. The machinations employed to avoid late charges and certain calamity made the poor girl a nervous wreck. Only three months into the job and Lydia worried that she might be developing an ulcer. Rolaids, Maalox, Zantac, none of these over-the-counter remedies were able to quell her burning gut. Her late father suffered with an ulcer for most of his life, she must have inherited the susceptibility.

You might wonder why Lydia didn’t quit working for Earley Creative Asset Solutions if the job caused her such marked distress. For one thing, she had a six-year old special needs child, so Lydia preferred flexible hours. And, since she was a notary public Veronica saw to it that Lydia was present for the signing of loan docs, and that brought in extra money. Jobs were hard to find or keep with the economy in the state of a rapid downward spiral. They had to eat! Little Oliver was a huge responsibility and Lydia intended to do right by him. It wasn’t her son’s fault that his sperm donor had turned out to be a doper and a deserter. It wasn’t her son’s fault that for all intents and purposes his mother was an orphan and totally on her own. Little Oliver’s circumstances plagued Lydia. What could she do but persevere?

The office Lydia toiled away in was attached to the Earley’s rambling ranch house. The close proximity meant that she was privy to family squabbles, household mishaps, and the day-today tumult that was their norm. At home in her apartment, while seeing to Oliver’s supper, while helping him with his homework, or bathing him, Lydia would marvel at the uncluttered and sane atmosphere. She was a Virgo. Order brought peace of mind at the end of a hectic day.

Veronica would hide her purchases from Donny. Lamps and duvet covers, vases and purses, bracelets and self-help books, tacky silk flower arrangements and designer perfumes, all this and more could be found shoved to the back of closets, under beds, and piled behind a row of tall file cabinets out in the garage. One day a package arrived from Peru. Lydia watched Veronica unwrap the box frantically, the way her bony fingers trembled with anticipation. As she handed Lydia the invoice for a four-hundred-dollar-plus Alpaca sweater, she cried, “Isn’t it divine?”

“You ought to send it back,” Lydia warned. “The Rodriquez loan fell through, you must stop spending money you don’t have!”
Veronica frowned and began to shake her head like some kind of madwoman. “But I’m putting that big commercial deal together, you’ll see! We’ll be singing…we’re in the money, we’re in the money.”

A bully at school attacked Little Oliver one day. The bratty monster scratched his innocent angelic face and pulled down his pants in front of the other children. Lydia sat in front of the principal’s big oak desk and expressed her dismay and frustration with teachers that could stand idly by and let something so horrible happen under their watch. “I’m sorry,” the young principal told Lydia. “I agree with everything you’re saying. Heads will roll. I won’t stand for my students being brutalized.”

Lydia considered the principal then, she leaned forward in her chair and really saw him for the first time. Mr. Covington, what a nice name for a nice man. Why, he actually cared. Lydia saw sincere concern, her pretty face crumpled, and soon she was crying hysterically, making a complete fool of herself. “It’s just so hard,” she whined. Mr. Covington brought over a box Kleenex, patted her shoulder softly and offered support while she struggled to regain her composure.

Three months into her engagement to Dustin Covington Lydia walked into the office of Earley Creative Asset Solutions and gave notice.

Veronica’s eyes widened and she pointed at the door. “Leave now then!”

Donny came in from the garage wearing one of his ridiculous golf outfits and asked, “What the heck’s going on in here?”

“She’s leaving me!” Veronica screamed.

Donny faced Lydia as she told him, “I put in a month’s notice but Veronica wants me to go now, which is fine by me.” Lydia plucked two framed photos of Little Oliver off her desk and shoved them in her bag. She opened a drawer and grabbed a bag of trial mix. It seemed odd that she didn’t have anything else to take.

“Hold on,” Donny said. “Let’s cool down.”

“Leaving today’s fine by me,” Lydia snapped. She couldn’t count how many times she’d seen the words Continue Shopping flash across Veronica’s computer screen, and the image compelled her to say to Donny, “You really need to know, there’s not enough money to cover the American Express bill this month. I have no idea how you guys are going to make ends meet, unless you take funds from your retirement account. To be truthful, I’m glad that I won’t have to worry about the sorry state of your finances anymore.”

“Veronica?” Donny said lamely, before sitting down. The deluded husband had no clue. No clue at all.

Lydia rushed past the arguing couple, opened the door, and made a beeline for her car. Veronica followed, her wagging mouth demanding that Lydia come back and listen to reason, but Lydia did not respond. Driving away, she felt the tight knots in her belly begin to unravel at last, and a grin spread across her face as put the car in neutral and coasted down the long hill leading home.

Marathon Shopper Art courtesy of PopArtDiva.com, copyright 2009. All Rights Reserved.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

DREAM ON

My son had a dream that he was drinking the most amazing icy water from a glacier source last night. The first thing he did when he woke up was to run downstairs and fetch a glass. Naturally, the ice and water from our fridge did not measure up to the frosty potion he had dreamt about. What a drag.

Some dreams come to us at night when we are sleeping and some are merely daydreams. We daydream about winning the lottery, fitting into jeans we used to fit into, going to Belize or Fiji or some such tropical getaway spot, phantom lovers and fame. Some of us confuse our fantasies and wild imaginings with the here and now. This may cause trouble.

I often dream about houses. Sometimes I find these houses, sometimes my husband or brother are the ones to find them. Never average or ugly—oh no—and they almost always stand above or near bodies of water—usually the ocean. We make our way through them room to room, and wonders are revealed, like secret hallways or attics full of treasures.

In one such dream we pulled up to a Spanish house, parked at the curb, and I boldly pulled my husband inside upon finding the entry door ajar. The living room ceilings were vaulted and beamed. There was a huge fireplace, and a charming balcony at the top of the iron staircase. The dining room had crystal laden wall sconces that matched a magnificent chandelier. The kitchen had majolica on display, and an arched picture window that looked out over a pool and cabana.

About a month later we were on our way to visit friends, driving in a town called Whittier just outside of L.A., and I spotted that very same house! A realtor was placing balloons and flags out front, a sign read OPEN HOUSE NOON TO 5:00.

I told my husband that it was the house from my dream. The one I had described to him in such detail over coffee the following morning. He said we must have driven past it before and that’s what triggered my active imagination. I agreed.

But, explain this, I had never been inside, and the interiors and yard were exactly as I remembered. The claw-foot tub, the lemon tree, the whitewashed pavers and hardwood floors, an upstairs bathroom with turquoise tile and a built-in vanity, that incredible view of Los Angeles’s skyline from the backyard—an exact replica!

The house was for sale but for an incredibly high price. We climbed into the Fiat and drove away lost in our own thoughts.

I have had other dreams that are difficult to explain and many like the one my son had last night. He was just incredibly thirsty and needed to hydrate.




All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

MICRO STORY

Modified People

I was an all-knowing freak from the beginning. When I was little I knew what the grown-ups thought I didn’t know, and I saw what they thought I couldn’t see. That’s what fucked me up. I’m sure of it. It’s damn near impossible to have a happy go lucky childhood when you realize that your mother loves your father’s brother and not your dad. It was hard to relate to other children, the other kids in the neighborhood seemed so clueless about so many things. I wanted to ask them why they were so oblivious but knew better than to do that. Take my older sister for example. Brenda never could figure out what was really going on, she was too busy playing jump rope and planning her future wedding to Prince William, (yes, she was convinced that they would marry. Even though he lived clear over in Jolly-Old-England, and we lived in boring with a capital B Sandusky Ohio.) I kept my opinions and observations to myself. I harbored deep dark secrets.

Now I work in an office and I see what my co-workers think nobody sees. Marvin for instance, he’s gawking at porno on his Dell when he should be making cold calls. And that bitch Fiona, she was banging our married boss Shep after happy hour every Thursday. Don’t ask me why I know but Fiona had to have an abortion last month and won’t sleep with Shep anymore. Trudy makes long distance phone calls to her ex husband out in California on the company dime. Lest you think that I enjoy being the person that knows—I don’t—it’s a never-ending burden.

So, when I read an article in People magazine about a renegade doctor that specializes in modifying people, I didn’t waste any time signing up to be on his extensive waiting list. After a few months I finally stepped foot into his posh office suite in Long Beach for a consultation. I longed to be like everybody else. Focused on sex and money and status and all that regular stuff. I told Dr. Armstrong to shorten my nose and perform a little liposuction, and while he was at it, could he teach me how to flirt? I’d always been shy around guys. I confessed that I was sexually repressed and still a virgin. Dr. Armstrong said it would take about two years to modify me. Did I have the patience? He wasn’t so sure. I made a pledge, if there was one thing I had going for me, it was patience.

He began to renovate my personality and characteristics. We had a rough road ahead of us, he explained, because I was the sum total of all that had formed me. He would do his best to undo the damage. Hypnosis was Dr. Armstrong’s tool. Luckily, I was highly susceptible to suggestion.

You could say that these subtle changes happen so slowly you aren’t even aware that you are changing. One day Sadie from accounting asked me if I’d noticed how much weight Darla in sales had put on recently. And I hadn’t! My lack of interest was a revelation. I hadn’t been hitting the chocolaty snacks either. I preferred carrot and celery sticks to Hostess cupcakes. My energy level had skyrocketed. Happy Hour held no allure, alcohol no appeal. On the anniversary of my first year with Dr. Armstrong we celebrated by scheduling my nose job. He suggested I straighten my teeth as well and I went for it. Why not?

Do you love happy endings? Because I do. When Dr. Armstrong was finished with my modification he asked me to marry him. It seemed that I had become the perfect woman. Did I mention that I also had breast implants and completed schooling to obtain a nursing degree, so I run his office now? Well I did and I do. We live in a lovely home in Palos Verdes and I am expecting our first child. Life is amazing. I’m so lucky to belong to the exclusive club, to be one of the modified people.






All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.