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Quite the morning…

This morning (first steps in the dank, humid air at 6:05) featured a little bit of everything: off roading in a manner of speaking, a bag-busting jumble of trash (plus some never before reclaimed items), and a small dose of humanity.

I’m particularly sensitive to junk close to waterways, and not five minutes into my jaunt the remnants of a polystyrene cup was spied about 30 feet down an embankment directly above McMullen Creek. For :30 I plotted a down-andup path to avoid poison ivy and proceeded to pick my way over the kudzu which is just now beginning to carpet the muddy ground. The poly was retrieved, and confiscated along with it was a sun bleached Gatorade bottle and a few equally ancient cans. Depressing, though, was a car battery laying on its side and nearly hidden in the greenery. WTF? Who in the hell would pitch a battery down an embankment? I’ll go back for it later. It won’t escape me much longer.

Fairview is a favorite place for slobs to discard cigarette butts and plastic tips from cheap cigars. There are literally too many butts to bother with but today, and for the first time, I stooped to pick up my first cigar tip. They’ll be target of mine from here on out.

This morning's take. I'll give Harris Teeter bags this: those babies can really stretch to accommodate big loads.

This morning’s take. I’ll give Harris Teeter bags this: those babies can really stretch to accommodate big loads.

Laying alongside the curb a few hundred yards onto Fairview were found a quarter and a couple of pennies. About a half mile later is a Burger King at the corner of Fairview and Sharon. I often attribute the Burger King trash scooped up along Fairview to this location. Outside the front door sat a homeless man, his few possessions laid beside him. What he was waiting for, or hoping for, I don’t know. But my already-full bag and I walked directly to him. I offered the quarter and pennies but without looking up at me he said “No thanks, I don’t need those.” I wished him well and was on my way. There but for the grace of God go I.

The remainder of the walk was routine – Coors Light, Red Bull and Busch beer cans, Pepsi and Coca Cola containers, et al – and the last dregs of now-cold coffee were gulped along Sharon View about 300 yards from the entrance to my development. The battery and the plight of the homeless man still bother me. After a bowl of cereal with strawberries I’ll do something about the one but nothing about the other.

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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