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A damn mess in South Florida…

There apparently aren’t a lot of Pick Up Your Path converts in Deerfield Beach. But there are, however, a lot of idiots.
My walk this morning was stop-and-go: go a few steps then stop to pick up one of the literally hundreds of things worthy of reclamation.

This is the worst mess imaginable.

In the first 15 minutes bag #1 was full. But plastic Armageddon was still ahead. Beneath the serrated fronds of low palmettos ideally suited to trap junk was an unfathomable amount of plastic and polystyrene. I reached what I could; some of it had clearly been there for a long, long time.
There was a very disturbing scene as I trod across a bridge spanning a waterway. The surface beneath the bridge was covered with floating debris, most of it destined before long to make its unfortunate way to the Atlantic. I hate that prospect.
It can’t be much worse than this. This is likely some kind of unenviable record for junk that amasses along a sidewalk. Then again, I suppose it could be worse in Detroit or Houston or Los Angeles. As they say, records are made to be broken.




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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