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Neither snow nor…

To paraphrase the U.S. Postal Service, neither snow, nor rain (etc.) would keep me from my appointed rounds last night. For a guy who’s lived in Wyoming, Nebraska and Iowa, this dusting isn’t even a good start to a ‘snow event’ or whatever the hell they call these panic-inducing forecasts in the South.

This stretch along Fairview Road in Charlotte is prime hunting ground for litter.

This stretch along Fairview Road in Charlotte is prime hunting ground for litter tossed aside by slobs.

The snow wasn’t about to stick to the sidewalk, so off I went. I needed to do my 2.5 mile lap around the extended block; I’d spied a few plastic items while driving earlier in the day. I wanted to retrieve them before they might somehow escape containment.

A little snow wasn't about to deter me. But why are the beer cans strewn along Sharon View Road always Coors Light?

A little snow wasn’t about to deter me. But why are the beer cans strewn along Sharon View Road always Coors Light?

It was not a walk to pick up snow-sodden paper. This was about weather-impervious plastic and metal. The paper can wait for a drier day. It will still be there, unfortunately.

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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