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Adelle Bradford

Food for the Mind and Soul


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For my Friends and Readers:

I sincerely hope that you will find some of this reading entertaining and / or stimulating. Any comments and or critiques are welcome. And, of course, purchase my books and stories and tell me what you think. You may also wish to visit my page for Readers Reviews (coming).

Please also follow the link to my United Kingdom website http://adellebradford.org.uk. This site has been up since the beginning of October 2006. It appears to be developing a readership as well and I am very happy about that!

Adelle Bradford
Suffolk, Virginia, USA

Dell's Owl

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Eppingen GermanyAbout Being Alive

I think I understand the difference between "childish" and "child-like" now. One morning in May, I stood on a grassy hillside where apple trees were blooming. Quite suddenly, it became MY time, MY place . . . the sun, the almost-tangible taste of the sweetness and clarity of the air, the almost-audible whispers of buds opening and leaves unfurling, bird sounds, bee sounds, and oh,the colors! The marvelous colors!

The years fell away, and in my emotional nakedness, I dived in it, swam in it, frolicked in it, absorbed it through my pores. And I remembered, oh so clearly, a boy named "Howard," the dearest friend of my first fifteen years, the closest thing to a big brother I will ever have. He survived the Hell of landing on Omaha Beach in World War Two. Only three days later, he wrote to me as he sat in an apple orchard somewhere in France. In his boyish way he tried to describe to me, the naive girl who knew only harsh Arizona deserts and who had never seen an apple tree, the lushness of it all, the beauty of apple blossoms falling on the paper as he wrote, how alive he felt, how far away the war.

He was killed the next day.

That was so many years ago, and I was a half a world away. Only now do I truly understand what he tried to tell me.

For an hour on that hillside in May here in Mauer, Germany, we were together, children again when everything was new and glorious, and there were no questions, no yesterdays, no tomorrows.

In that moment, I simply "was" alive, everything I am and will ever be . . . child-like.

And now the lilacs are blooming . . . .    Lilacs


Magic DellTransformation

I believe in magic . . . the good kind,
Transforming dross into gold.

I believe in ritual . . . and dreams
So all encompassing
They transcend mundane reality.

Sometimes, when deeply mired in wars
With self and the world outside me,
I chant my secret words and charms,
Begin my the long practiced rituals

And soon I am at peace,
Tranquil and serene,
At one with myself,
In that magic place
Where the real me lives,

And reality is only what I choose to make it.


Mania is bottled anxiety,
bottled excitement,
part arousal, part madness,
an electricity that
both illuminates and electrocutes.
Everyday obsessive mania is
the lot of she who creates,
for when she loves her work
and needs to birth it,

when ideas flood her brain and
she must arrange them
into coherent patterns,
she is driven along by
her own relentless passion


More to come . . . .

E-Mail Author: cygnet@adellebradford.org


One day, I found myself milling about the house in an aimless manner ... and one person milling about is a pitiful sight to behold. Personally, I think four people are the optimal number for esthetically pleasing milling about, don't you agree? Which brings up other questions: How many people does it take to make a mob? If one is a goose and two are geese, are three a flock? Think about that a minute: "Hey, I saw a flock of geese flying north! Yeah? A whole bunch of 'em, huh? Naw, only a flock of three." Sounds silly and whimsical, doesn't it? Anyway, as a substitute for milling about, I looked up the word "Whimsey" in our big dictionary.

Among other things, it means capricious humor or wit. Being me, of course, I looked up the word "capricious". That looks a little odd to me ... if I had been being Jane or John would I have looked it up? Probably not because a Jane or John would have more interesting and productive things to do. At least I hope so.

Back to the word "capricious". It comes from latin root words for Capricorn, the goat, which is me personified. In addition to smelling like one on occasion, which is probably why goats like me, it actually is my birth sign. The dictionary described it as being cautious, curious, and subject to occasional whimsical capering for reasons not readily apparent to casual observers. Oh, how true!

And it is that "whimsical capering" that causes me so much trouble. The attacks are sudden and last for varying periods of time. Since I've been in Germany, they have increased both in length and intensity, becoming almost uncontrollable at times. There is something about the way Germans take themselves so seriously, the way they are compelled to conform in what they eat, wear, say, and even dare think, that triggers these "Terminal Whimsey" attacks in me. In my mind, for I dare not publically express myself, how I do whimsically caper! And sometimes giggle for reasons "not readily apparent to casual observers", but nonetheless very clear to me.

Oh, why do I say "Terminal Whimsey"? Well, you've heard the term "die laughing" haven't you? Can you think of a better way to go?

Incidentally, by coincidence I'm sure, my very first friend - - dear, true friend - - was a little white goat named "Ribbons". She wore a small, tinkling silver bell around her neck and danced on tombstones . . . but that is another story for another time. Nearly forty years later, a big, stubborn, opinionated goat named "Annie Nannie" also became my friend and confidant. She was such a good listener . . . but what else would you expect from a whimsically capering Capricorn like me?

Please be patient. Learning the management of new website design is a challenge for a novice. Thank you!