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Illuminating in the dark…

I don’t like that the autumn and pre-winter days are shorter.
It means my Saturday and Sunday walks – empty trash bag and hot coffee in hand – begin in the dark.

Even in the dark hours, my 2.5 mile route is still worth a bagful of litter.

Even in the dark hours, my 2.5 mile route is still worth a bagful of litter.

Without light, pickable items go unseen. Plastic Marlboro wrappers, small shards of plastic, caps from Coke bottles, bits of polystyrene, McDonald’s and Burger King cup lids, Snickers wrappers, etc. won’t be captured.
To make matters worse, the telltale sheen of plastic is lost among the glisten of tens of thousands of wet leaves. The leafy mat can cover Bud Light and Miller Lite and Pepsi cans. So I corral and bag what I can.
As the dawn arrives, I can see the refuse begin to accumulate. Junk I missed earlier will have to wait for next time. What it confirms is that slobs keep tossing stuff aside. I’ll continue to be there to pick up after them. Even in the dark, their buffoonery is illuminating.

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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