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One week’s take: messy, yucky, sordid…

How much trash can you pick up in a week?

Apparently a lot. No matter how you slice it, it’s a messy, yucky and sordid business. All manner of goo seeps out of containers and bottles and fast food bags. Better in my bag, I suppose, than into the public waterways. (My trash retrieval habit went oceanic last weekend; I plucked from the brackish water several bobbing bottles and containers while kayak fishing in an Intercoastal waterway at Oak Island, NC.)

The sum total of my toil this week. Whatever elation I feel at doing good is tempered knowing there will be more junk tomorrow and the days after that.

The sum total of my toil this week. Whatever elation I feel at doing good is tempered knowing there will be more junk tomorrow and the days after that.

Someone has to do this stuff. There are simply too many knuckleheads out there who don’t give a damn about the visual and physical spoilage their carelessness causes.

This morning I hauled a recycle bin stuffed with several bags of recycled goodies to the curb. The weight was probably 20 lbs. or so. I take some special measure of satisfaction from freeing plastic and polystyrene from storm grates since the next stop would be who-knows-where. The ocean maybe.

But these objects de trash won’t make it that far; they’ve been liberated from fouling our eco-system. My elation is always short-lived though; this sidewalk work is never done. Slobs do their dirty work and we’re all the worse off for it.

Here’s the rest of the week’s sorry results: IMG_0444IMG_0449 IMG_0448 IMG_0447 IMG_0446 IMG_0445

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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