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A typical Saturday, more typical trash

The best part of my week is Saturday morning. I’m up early, grind some beans for a fresh pot of coffee, grab my to-go cup, then head out the door with my plastic bag to patrol my path.

I get on with the dirty work almost instantly. This morning, the trash came early and often. A chunk of styrofoam here, a smashed plastic bottle there, a Pabst can along the curb. I don’t know how many different items you can count – I don’t care to do that math – but Dairy Queen and Bojangles cups, a Coca Cola bottle and a pack of Camels (with a couple of cigarettes still inside) are a pretty typical representation of my Saturday walks.

i just get so pissed some mornings. Here's this morning's haul. How in the hell does all this mess get to where it is? Why can't people dispose of stuff in a civil manner? It just irritates the hell out of me.

I just get so pissed some days. Here’s Saturday morning’s haul. How in the hell does all this mess get to where it is? Why can’t people dispose of stuff in a civil manner? It just irritates the hell out of me.

As much as I bitch and whine about it, there is a small sense of satisfaction that at least some of the tonnage of trash around this town is out of circulation.

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

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