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A bad day in a good way…

There are different barometers of my days spent hauling in trash/junk/assorted other shit along my path; volume (i.e. bag buster amounts), removal of specialty plastic items (i.e. flossing thingies, broken bumpers from car wrecks), or extra-nice days when there’s hardly anything that impedes my hurried walking pace.

Then there are items RFSDs; if there is a nirvana of removing stuff from the wrong end of the environmental chain, this is it. This morning as I criss crossed

It was a bag buster this morning, but of special import were the items pulled from the brink of storm drains. That is the apex of trash retrieval for me.

It was a bag buster this morning, but of special import were the items pulled from the brink of storm drains. That is the apex of trash retrieval for me.

the six lanes of Fairview Road when errant items were spotted, I took a fleeting second to check out the grids on storm drains.

Good thing. Wedged tight or perilously balanced on the ledge of varied drains were a 5 Hour Energy bottle, Pepsi and Gatorade G2 bottles, a polystyrene cup, and two of those little red Solo cups the country singer Toby Keith wails about.

All ended up in my bag. If this trash isn’t pulled back from the precipice then who knows where the hell this retrievable plastic will end up. Suffice to say where it goes no one will follow. It will never be picked up and never recycled.

No day picking up some else’s mess is necessarily good. But saving certain items in the nick of time makes a bad day somewhat better.

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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