News Ticker

Beating the rain…

Here is the #1 rule for anyone walking when rain is forecast: “The rain shall fall hardest when the walker is furthest from home.”

That’s how it works, and that’s how it worked today. It. Rained. Hard. It. Poured.

Okay, most of this junk was on the curb; if it rained hard, what is the possibility that all of this goes down a storm drain? Pretty high.

Okay, most of this junk was on the curb; if it rained hard, what is the possibility that all of this goes down a storm drain? Higher than we should tolerate.

Today’s rain recalled my all time favorite adage from the U.S. Postal Service: “Neither snow nor rain nor…” I knew what today’s forecast was, watched the radar for an approaching tropical storm and figured I had to get out on my path while the getting was good.

How come? A couple of reasons. Rain washes things down and away; there is a strong chance the Dasani and Pepsi bottles would go down the proverbial storm drain. Close behind would be the other pieces of plastic; in all likelihood none of it would ever be recovered. It would be downstream for good.

I’m more than willing to endure a drenching if that means less junk ends up where it shouldn’t be. Plus, I found a quarter on the sidewalk. I won all the way around.

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: