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It was a dark and stormy night…

Every once in a while you have to just plain suck it up in the face of terrible-horrible-no good-very bad (apologies, Judith Viorst) weather and just hit the streets.

The other night was one of those that promised to test your resolve; enough rain to make a walk miserable in the damp, cutting cold (34F) with a brisk wind to match. So much for wishful thinking that winter was officially over. I like my journey for the walk itself and I hate to miss a day. My other stated intentions are obviously compulsive for me. No big deal. Hell, let’s get it on.

I despise a lot of things I pick up but none more so than a hard plastic band used to wrap bundles of 2x4s and the like. Its often in lengths of 6 - 10 ft. which makes it hard to corral. It resists coiling neatly and magically unwraps itself nearly every time I think it's contained. I come across my share of it and it's never left behind.

I despise a lot of things I pick up but none more so than a hard plastic band used to wrap bundles of 2x4s and the like. Its often in lengths of 6 – 10 ft. which makes it hard to corral. It resists coiling neatly and magically unwraps itself nearly every time I think it’s contained. I come across my share of it and it’s never left behind.

Encapsulated against the elements with a fleece and rain jacket, it was onward and outward. I will admit to scurrying a bit faster than normal (which wouldn’t take much). I can’t say there were any finds out of the ordinary; nothing is ordinary. It was very much a plastic-only day. Paper refuse could wait.

Like an idiot I forgot gloves and paid dearly for the oversight. My hands were freezing, wet and raw before I was halfway through my jaunt and the front door never looked so good when my trip was mercifully complete. I’d like to say I won’t make that mistake again. Alas, if only I could say it was the first time. How’s that working for me?

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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