<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?><rss xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/" xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" version="2.0"><channel><title><![CDATA[Kathy A. Bradley]]></title><description><![CDATA[Kathy A. Bradley, Author, Writer, Newspaper Columnist and Magazine Contributor.  ]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/bloghome</link><generator>RSS for Node</generator><lastBuildDate>Tue, 10 Mar 2026 15:10:54 GMT</lastBuildDate><atom:link href="https://www.kathyabradley.com/blog-feed.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><item><title><![CDATA[Mourning and Mourning Doves]]></title><description><![CDATA[For weeks now, the predominant notes floating through the dense morning air at Sandhill have been those of the mourning dove.  Often they have been the only sound coming from the branch, an aria written in a minor key. On other days, they have been joined by a chorus of wrens or a choir of mockingbirds, but the predominant melody greeting me in these waning days of winter has been their haunting coo-coo-coo.  I missed them when I had to be in the big city for a couple of days last week. ...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/mourning-and-mourning-doves</link><guid isPermaLink="false">69a9a2d8f1929985ec975039</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 05 Mar 2026 15:36:47 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_63e403faf928425398a9ec388867c03e~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Emergency Preparedness]]></title><description><![CDATA[Dr. Leah Strong, the head of the American Studies Department at Wesleyan in the late 1970s (and my advisor) introduced me to the ideas of popular culture and folklore and taught me that the stories my family told, the songs my family sang, the language used by my family – strong and wise and unaffected country people – were things to be valued and preserved.  It is because of Dr. Strong that my ear is trained to the cadence and melody of Southern voices, alerted to the layered meanings of...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/emergency-preparedness</link><guid isPermaLink="false">699753d67b02767d86653f68</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 19 Feb 2026 18:19:20 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_9dbe49fe62a74f858e54e0eb83860cfa~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Green Stamps and Colanders and Love]]></title><description><![CDATA[The steam rises to my face and I instinctually turn away, gripping the handles of the pot as the pasta tumbles into the colander in the sink.  The hot water rushes through the holes and in seconds the strands of spaghetti, only moments ago twisting and twirling around in the water as single threads, are clinging to each other, clumps of cooked flour awaiting something (tomato sauce? cheese? lemon?) that will give it actual flavor. I shake the colander two or three times and, as the last of...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/green-stamps-and-colanders-and-love</link><guid isPermaLink="false">6984c8431e55646770033e0e</guid><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 05 Feb 2026 16:45:35 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_03de7e58a8b64cbaacaf4157c8ec5ef5~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Ritual in the Rain]]></title><description><![CDATA[Despite knowing that the weathered boards of the deck will be wet and cold, I step outside in bare feet and turn east, toward the spot where the sun would be dangling were it not for a curtain of clouds.  The rain that teased snow started in the night with drops thick as cane syrup – fat and heavy and slow – and it continues this morning with indifference.  Rain don’t care. I do this every morning, this brief inspection of the landscape, this quick review to make sure that the sycamore tree...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/ritual-in-the-rain</link><guid isPermaLink="false">6974feca79c2933a1ec51e54</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Sat, 24 Jan 2026 17:20:09 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_9278f6490c054df18426d9d4924ebea8~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Rabbis, Resolutions, and Remembering]]></title><description><![CDATA[My friend Ivan was Jewish.  He grew up in a kosher house, went to Hebrew school, was bar mitvah’ed.   Even after he converted to Christianity as an adult, that Jewish childhood was reflected in his language, his personality, his way of moving in the world.  He once told me a story about the agony of sitting through a long temple service.  Jewish services, apparently like those of Christian churches, seemed to go on forever to children forced to sit still and quiet, especially since they were...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/rabbis-resolutions-and-remembering</link><guid isPermaLink="false">69601e26cf91ec7bd918f6a8</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 08 Jan 2026 21:15:33 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_6a45f83aa44f4b4dbce64e2887214df0~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Christmas, Actually]]></title><description><![CDATA[One day last week – a cold and rainy day when, mercifully, I had no reason to leave home – I thought of Christmas and a specific image came to me, thrown up on the screen of my memory like one of the green-tinged slides that document my childhood.  My mother and I were walking down Main Street, shoe boxes under our arms, shopping bags dangling from our wrists, our chilled breath hovering in the air for just a moment before floating off into the gray sky. And it wasn’t just a visual impression....]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/christmas-actually</link><guid isPermaLink="false">694ee3e1ff1e0f06d9c35a59</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Fri, 26 Dec 2025 19:38:17 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_7a91642ad27e4994a04012e359383219~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[What It Means To Wait]]></title><description><![CDATA[It is Sunday, the second Sunday in Advent and, though the season is upon us, I am not in a particularly festive mood.  For four days it has rained.  For four days the water-filled clouds have anchored themselves in the sky.  For four days I have stared out the back door at the shed in which the Christmas tree huddles in a corner, disassembled and naked, waiting.  Waiting for the rain to stop, waiting to be dragged across the yard, waiting to yield its wire and plastic limbs to baubles and...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/what-it-means-to-wait</link><guid isPermaLink="false">693c6ee742832d49aeba415a</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Fri, 12 Dec 2025 19:38:05 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_1d4aea5c0aa34fe4bd7b3950ee3affe0~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_512,h_384,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Providence and Pine Trees]]></title><description><![CDATA[The morning light of late November shoots through the windows like a laser, throwing itself past the interruptions of windows panes and blinds to leave a geometrically exact grid on the wall.  The pencil-filled mug-shaped shadow is a perfect silhouette. The glass in the frame on the wall glints with sun so bright I have to narrow my eyes to look. Outside the window, on the narrow strip of field grass mown into a reasonable facsimile of yard, dew creates a mirror on each of the palm-sized...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/providence-and-pine-trees</link><guid isPermaLink="false">6928c221ce8000f2f4b4828c</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 27 Nov 2025 21:29:39 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_3ea96605494741f496980fb6aa313ac2~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[That Old House]]></title><description><![CDATA[The old house at the crossroads, its raw wood grown to a deep, dull gray, was already old and gray the first time my father drove us down the rocky dirt road to the farm. Its walls tilted and its porch sagging, the abandoned dwelling was the last piece of evidence I needed as proof that we would soon arrive at the end of the earth. It hasn’t changed much in the fifty-something years since I first saw it.  The last remaining panes of wavy glass were shot out by drunk teenagers at least 30...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/that-old-house</link><guid isPermaLink="false">69177832b17750b50ffccb43</guid><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><pubDate>Fri, 14 Nov 2025 18:43:58 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_95be4bae313443f38a65a8f43380af02~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[A Reverence for Moths]]></title><description><![CDATA[The coin-sized moth lay flat against the front door, its paired wings curving gently like Peter Pan collars.  I almost didn’t see it.  I had crossed the yard, climbed the front steps, and taken the porch in three long strides, my thoughts on a million things, when something – It may have been Owen darting between my legs hustling to get inside or the singular flash of light that blazed through an opening in the pines as the sun reached the horizon. – interrupted my daydreaming and I noticed...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/a-reverence-for-moths</link><guid isPermaLink="false">6903738e52e873f69d2fd886</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 30 Oct 2025 14:22:27 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_6f61249ff42049ce8f6748a631765f9f~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Scabs and Scars and Sketch Comedy]]></title><description><![CDATA[It was funny, really, after I got past the pain and the blood and the embarrassment.  Funny like Tim Conway falling down the stairs in slow motion or Lucy racing the chocolate conveyor belt – funny because it reflected the simple human truth that none of us is ever really in control. The source of my humiliation – my stairs, my conveyor belt – was the treadmill planted ostentatiously and unavoidably in the middle of my bedroom.  Every day I clip the safety key to the bottom of my shirt and...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/scabs-and-scars-and-sketch-comedy</link><guid isPermaLink="false">68f29b4366d082d71b36165b</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Fri, 17 Oct 2025 19:41:44 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_9e5db2d027cb4aa6adc26507d44db97b~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[What We Keep]]></title><description><![CDATA[From her perch on the dusty mantel of what was my parents’ house, she meets my gaze with an expression of curiosity. Her face is round...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/what-we-keep</link><guid isPermaLink="false">68de8c8fc7e572aeb9031580</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 02 Oct 2025 14:34:31 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_4cb96a6225b94ad7af54911281b3a81e~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Slow Burn]]></title><description><![CDATA[The evening sky is streaked with high pink slashes. The backyard is littered with the first fallen leaves, palm-shaped platters skittering in the breeze.  Under the canopy of the sawtooth oaks, acorns the size of plums litter the ground awaiting the hungry deer who leave footprints that look like hearts in the aftermath of their banqueting.  The stillness and the quietness is mesmerizing and I could sit here in the waning light for hours if I did not have a job to do. In a metal bucket set...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/slow-burn</link><guid isPermaLink="false">68cd7fd8e4f4a67f90e1fe11</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Fri, 19 Sep 2025 16:18:38 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_d9e51e5e9a1c47ab9c5dd39823d0f926~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[She Shares Seashells]]></title><description><![CDATA[Labor Day marks, we are told, the end of summer.  That is not exactly true, of course.  The fall equinox is not for another three weeks...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/she-shares-seashells</link><guid isPermaLink="false">68b9a4bfb8338a1ae1936a09</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 04 Sep 2025 14:43:16 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_6b5e3244cd7940a7990536aab0d51dc6~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Set The Alarm]]></title><description><![CDATA[When I retired from practicing law, I decided two things:  The first was that I would not speed.  No longer subject to the power of a...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/set-the-alarm</link><guid isPermaLink="false">68a731ee6c4f5bcba97b78a2</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 21 Aug 2025 14:50:21 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_8a4dd08fe3a543a8b2d0b328759466c8~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Near and Far]]></title><description><![CDATA[I got my first pair of glasses when I was in ninth grade after I noticed that I had to squint to make out the numbers Miss Kemp had...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/near-and-far</link><guid isPermaLink="false">6894c54b9ac5e3b05d322c69</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 07 Aug 2025 15:25:56 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_598a659cb9754dc897db16f7ca631fba~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Merci, Gracias, and Thank You]]></title><description><![CDATA[As an origin story, it is nothing particularly noteworthy.  In fact, the circumstances were ordinary, mundane, unremarkable.  It was a...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/merci-gracias-and-thank-you</link><guid isPermaLink="false">6883a00024b9ed0d8c629e4a</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Fri, 25 Jul 2025 15:19:35 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_ca0e64acdbe042d5a78b4efdaf358748~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Lovely As A Tree]]></title><description><![CDATA[I have not always loved trees.  I was not the child who read books in the shade of limbs extended like arms and I certainly did not climb...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/lovely-as-a-tree-1</link><guid isPermaLink="false">686fa9c5e3d13fcb0328a62f</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 10 Jul 2025 11:53:51 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_bfaed27cf4ab41e78b8d9281d92bd0ed~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[A Heart At Flood Stage]]></title><description><![CDATA[It is hard to know what to call this time of day.  The sun is still above the horizon and the time is almost 8:30 p.m..   I cannot...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/a-heart-at-flood-stage</link><guid isPermaLink="false">685d6328b504ca89701a0029</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 26 Jun 2025 15:13:08 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_437ee101dd694ced8d79cf462aab3a52~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item><item><title><![CDATA[Learning From Lizards]]></title><description><![CDATA[Almost every time I have stepped outside this spring, I have been greeted by a lizard – clinging to the doorbell on the concrete stoop at...]]></description><link>https://www.kathyabradley.com/post/learning-from-lizards</link><guid isPermaLink="false">684b01c2ef70c6f7b2001ae9</guid><category><![CDATA[The Columns]]></category><category><![CDATA[Blog]]></category><pubDate>Thu, 12 Jun 2025 16:37:53 GMT</pubDate><enclosure url="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f18bd6_2348682035b945f78444e060e53d71c5~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" length="0" type="image/png"/><dc:creator>Kathy A. Bradley</dc:creator></item></channel></rss>