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My path as it should be

This is the second to last leg of my path. It is the quietest stretch of my route, an overgrown aisle of concrete about 300 yards long with about a quarter mile left to my front doorstep. This is how the path should look. Only it rarely does.

I'm fine with encroachment by poison ivy, English ivy and grass along my path. It's the man-made discards I have trouble with.

I'm fine with encroachment by poison ivy, English ivy and grass along my path. It's the man-made discards I have trouble with.

Most Saturday and Sunday mornings, however, it's strewn with fast food bags and other assorted junk. Someone must like Coors Light because there's always a can or two near this very spot. Conjecture in this corner is it must be kids from the prior night who jettison

their illegal brew before they reach home. The entrance to a subdivision where kids come and go is only a block or so away. What is amazing in that of all the hundreds of laps I have logged around my extended block, never once have I ever seen anyone toss anything out the car window. Maybe the crime of littering is a nocturnal activity where the perps know there will likely not be disapproving eyes as they go about their unthinking, dirty business under the cover of darkness.

But, alas, I am resigned that something that shouldn’t be there will always be there when I pass this certain spot (the same goes for most other spots along my 2.5 mile trek). I find it disheartening that it is so.

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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