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The town drunks…

My walk wasn’t five minutes old this morning when the first shards of a smashed Miller Lite bottle appeared on the pavement. I didn’t have gloves, so I kicked aside the broken “Tastes Great!” pieces safely off the roadway, fully intent to get them tomorrow. The brown glass will still be there.

Lots of Miller Lite and Coors Light bottles and cans this morning. Disgusting but utterly predictable. A boozy Friday night removes common sense from those who ought to know better.

Lots of Miller Lite and Coors Light bottles and cans this morning. Disgusting but utterly predictable. A boozy Friday night removes common sense from those who ought to know better.

Another 50 yards and there was another shattered Miller Lite bottle, the residue of the town drunks from Friday night.

All of this is expected and predictable. It’s an all-too-typical Friday night. Take a close look at the incriminating photo: three Coors Light cans, crunched Busch Light and Budweiser cans, yet another Dasani bottle, and, to represent the non-imbibers, a Coke Zero can crushed flat. On the small side, which I don’t really get, are miniature Gray Goose and Dewars bottles. And you can toss in the M&Ms box, the Reece’s bag, and all the other random trash the morons jettisoned.

Yes, I may have uttered some sour words at 6:30 a.m. But there was a bright spot: the Bud can and Dasani bottle were RFSDs. If they’re not stopped there, the next stop is down stream.

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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