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Because it’s my path…

So, asked an inquirer, ‘why not walk another route? There’s a lot trash other places, too.’

A fair enough question.

Every so often it crosses my mind to venture in a new direction. When I drive down Rae Road, there’s lots of stuff that’s been

The gentle arc of my path on Sharon View Road. For better or worse, it is my path, and I accept the responsibility of tending to it.

The gentle arc of my path on Sharon View Road. For better or worse, it is my path, and I accept the responsibility of tending to it.

there for a while. Polystyrene foam Big Gulp cups stuck in storm drains. A crushed can here, a fast food wrapper there. Same with going further east on Sharon View. More junk, more stuff to pick up. No matter which way I could alternatively turn, there’s more litter – more litter everywhere.

As much as I’m willing to do so, there’s no way for me to tend to all streets. I think that now when my bag is about to burst as I follow my Sharon View-Colony Road-Fairview-Sharon Road loop every day: “How the hell can I pick all this up?”

I empathize with the need. But my path is my path. In a manner of speaking, I own it. It is my accepted responsibility to take care of my little acreage stretching some 2.5 miles. Have plastic bag, will travel. And clean up along my way.

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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