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The whole shooting’ match…

These days it’s dark before my weekday walks are finished. There’s not enough light to chronicle the volume of daily trash in photographs, one bag at a time.

So my booty gets stashed out of sight behind a hedge at the back of the house. I don’t want my neighbors to become any more agitated with their local bagman than they already might be.IMG_3164

So after this morning’s trek (out the door at 6:31 a.m.) I put all of the week’s bags on the driveway for an atypical ‘group’ photo. Kind of a rogue’s gallery of plastic, a boatload of polystyrene, assorted paper, a Toyota hubcap and other debris from a wreck – in all, just a lot of shit.

I dumped it out to see what a colossal pile might look like.

Here is the week's worth of shit looks like en masse. Not a very pretty picture but at least it's out of circulation.

Here is the week’s worth of shit looks like en masse. Not a very pretty picture but at least it’s out of circulation.

The whole shootin’ match created a mass – 15 lbs. or so – that was re-bagged minutes later according to litter type: hard plastic in one bag, plastic sheeting in another, etc. All of it prepped for recycling.

Not an unsatisfying way to start a Saturday. Besides, Stephen Stills and The Rides Don’t Want Lies (“I wake up in the shadows of my dreams wondering what it is I seek”) was a good tune to walk to on a chilly morning. I know what I seek, and it’s a cleaner path.

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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