One of the most important time periods of my life was the summer I spent in England with my family back in the early 90's. I was about 14 years old and my father went to England on a sort of "UK tour," for lack of a better term. The Brits, they loved Pastor Johnson and his family. It was a great trip. One of my favorite stops among the many cities we visited was Bradford. When I say this to people who have been to England, they invariably scrunch up their faces and ask, "Really, Bradford?" But I loved that place. We stayed with a really kind family in a gigantic house up on a hill. I became close friends with one of the sons, Richard. I looked up to him because he was 3 years older than me and had a driver's license. He looked up to me because I was a genuine American...from California! Memory is a funny thing. I have only vague, fuzzy outlines of much of my time in Bradford. I remember bombing down the long driveway as a passenger in the family's Ford,