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God’s green earth on a Sunday morning

I wonder how it is, after only 48 hours since my last trek around the block, there can come to be roughly 10 lbs. of junk lying alongside the curb and sidewalk of my path.

In all my time of doing this, I’ve never seen anyone ever throw anything out, but there it is: a McDonald’s styrofoam cup, Bud Lite cans, a tiny Smirnoff bottle,

Honestly, where the hell does all this stuff come from and who's responsible for it?

Honestly, where the hell does all this stuff come from and who’s responsible for it?

untold plastic bottles, a couple of Coor’s Light cans, several paper cups from P.F. Chang’s, a bunch of plastic straws and bottle caps. The big prize: a crunched Toyota hubcap. My little bag was bulging before I went a mile.

This bag couldn't hold another bottle or can. It was filled to the gills.

This bag couldn’t hold another bottle or can. It was filled nearly to the bursting point.

If a photo says 1,000 words, then this one must speak a lot of profanity.

We keep dumping on God’s green earth. Pretty soon it may not be so green no more.

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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