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The biggest losers…

Most days I do some silent, presumptive accusations about who’s responsible for most of the trash I pick up. The real onus falls on the tosser, of course, but the only name to be attached is that of the brand. Losers, they are adjudged.

The temptation is to the label object or the moron who threw it away as the biggest losers. In truth, it's the rest of us who have lost the most. We have lost another bit of a clean environment and a path that is

This morning’s take of trash plucked from the wayside along the sidewalks of my route. The temptation is to  label the object or the moron who threw it away as the biggest losers. In truth, it’s the rest of us who have lost the most. The discards cost us another bit of a clean environment and  the visual serenity of an uncluttered path.

One day it might be McDonalds, Burger King the next, Wendy’s on occasion. On the bottle and can side, it’s either Coke or Bud Light, perhaps Miller Lite. To single out a few.

But to paraphrase Pogo (with apologies), ‘we have met the losers, and it is us.’

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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