NOVEMBER 25, 2000: New York, NY-- So beer was certainly an issue. But Daniel Bradford chimes in. "We tend to make a big deal out of [the beer], and the actual point is that we shouldnít, because it was an integral element of daily life, like making bread. If anything, our recent removal of beer from the family is an historical abhorration. It's just like mass-marketed beer is an historical abhorration. Beer has always been local. Beer has always been an element of the community, just like the church. They're all local."

In an ever-evolving conversation, Johnson Bradford takes a swing at how American views have evolved: "What I like about this story is the very normal part that beer played in life. What we've done since then is isolate beer and alcohol, in general, as something that is done and consumed only by adults in increasingly seedy conditions, dark bars. In many countries in the world, and in our own history, it was simply a normal part of breaking bread together. You also drank beer. And children saw their parents drinking beer, and children had small beer."

She goes on: "If we're lucky, if our culture can come back around to it again, we might have a lot more balanced view that still holds in Europe that it's a normal thing for responsible people to share, and not something to be "ghetto-ized'."

Her eighteen-year old Duke University students, whose misconceptions about alcohol are, she says, 'profound,' help shape Johnson Bradford's views on alcohol in today's society. In an effort to boast our morality, many Americans continue to build walls and create dangerous power struggles around alcohol, "rather," Johnson Bradford adds, "than making it normal."

Given the rich history attached to the Bradford name, could a Thanksgiving celebration for these people be 'normal'? Surprisingly, Bradford admits, "my family's Thanksgiving is dry. And as a consequence of that, there are two Thanksgiving meals. One is the formal, sit-down . . . in a seventeenth century carriage house. There's a ballroom upstairs. And there's a lot of ritual to it. We sing some Thanksgiving songs. Saying Grace is a big deal. Carving of the turkey is passed down through oldest sons . . . very much emphasis on the Bradford family."

"And once that's done, there is this, sort of, relaxation period, in which we all collectively do the dishes or sit around having coffee and talk about what's happened in the past year. Or going outside and hurting yourself in touch football. However, as soon as the digestive period is over, we all beat it over to another Bradford house in the neighborhood, and beer, turkey sandwiches, a lot of music, a lot of singing. The two [meals] together, weíre going from like 10am to 11pm. That's the Bradford celebration."

Why dry? A grandmother of French-Canadian descent married into the family. But those grandmothers are important. With an extended family of fifty to sixty Bradfords converging in one place, some order is necessary. And it was a maternal grandmother who recorded all of the trials and errors into feeding such a crowd in what is known as "the book." It contains everything from recipes for given quantities of people to which platter is appropriate for which side dish. As expected, hard work and "the book" make for a feast that runs like clockwork.

Though daily business, phone calls and computer frustrations frequently interrupted and plagued our discussion, Bradford managed, somehow, to squeeze in his more profound thoughts on how his ancestors have effected him, how they apply to how he carries himself on a daily basis. "The thing that I'm particularly attracted to about life then, and endures in small town New England (which is why a lot of my values probably are closer to William Bradford's than to, you know, contemporaries), is the fact that they were a community that looked inward. They looked to each other for support to take care of each other. They were a collective. And it's reflected in the church, the Congregational Church. And that's always been a part of my life."

"The sense of community and the importance of self-reliance, you know, are ñ I mean, that's why this [computer problem] is so frustrating. I can't make a computer work. I can make a damn good beer. I can help a friend rebuild their door. A friend calls me up and says, "My garage door doesn't work." I can go over in ten minutes and I can fix it. He will call me up. I will fix the door. And that's one of the legacies of small town New England. And these guys, to a great extent, started that."

And then Bradford, himself, turns inward, to explain how this legacy has shaped his actions. "These people on the Mayflower were merchants, small town shopkeepers. They weren't any big deal. They weren't anything spectacular. They would not be a [Bill] Gates or anything like that. They'd be like this." He motions to the modest office space from which he conducts his business of beer. "This will never be a multi-million dollar company. We will be a good, solid company around here. That's the principle value that I find I still share with my forefathers."

As organizer of the World Beer Festival, Daniel Bradfordís actions back his words. The WBF is local, on purpose. With one phone call, Bradford could bring in a circuit of special events food vendors and earn five times the current income. But, "we donít think that way," Bradford explains, "even though that's the way the world works." Instead, he goes the extra mile to bring in local restaurantsí food, from small business owners ill-equipped for such events. And then there's the good beer. Good music. And the profits? They benefit local charity.

Sounds about right, for a change. Again.