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The Good Samaritan…

I should learn to look at things other than sidewalks as I drive through my ‘hood.

Yesterday I spied a McDonald’s bag that had disintegrated upon impact when it smacked the concrete along my route. The contents – polystyrene cup, a box that held some sort of mega-burger and wrappers – were strewn over the small impact zone.

Normally this doesn’t shiver my timbers. But with rain in the early morning Saturday forecast, I momentarily stewed about picking up the wet junk.

This morning's debris is contained in a neat and tidy bundle.

This morning’s debris is contained in a neat and tidy bundle.

When I stepped out into the drizzle this morning at 6:22, I was fully prepared to come across this flotsam a few hundred yards into my walk. But when I arrived at the scene, every last shred of it was gone. Someone, another soul sickened by litter – a Good Samaritan – had beaten me to the punch.

That gladdened me. Not that whoever it was is a subscriber here. In fact, there are so few of you that your numbers could be counted on my digits. But for today, let’s make this anonymous Good Samaritan one of us.

The rest of my walk was as you would expect; the odd assortment of Bud Light, Budweiser, Coors Light and Pepsi containers, a Popov Vodka bottle, Burger King debris and lots and lots of polystyrene.

The contents unleashed. Not so neat and tidy.

The contents unleashed. Not so neat and tidy.

So I sit on the sofa sipping a cup of nuked coffee as I write this, offering a tip of my cup to whoever it was that made my morning a little brighter – and a little cleaner.

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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