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Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot…

What’s that old saying about volume vs. quality? ‘You lose a little on every sale, but make it up in volume.’ Something like that.

The situation is switched around for litter picker-uppers. Quality is good (less trash) while volume is bad (more trash).

This is a good day. Not nearly enough to fill a bag.

This is a good day. Not nearly enough to fill a bag.

That’s how it pans out for me most days. Sometimes you pick up so little you wonder why you took a bag. Sometimes you retrieve enough that a wheelbarrow would come in handy. I guess the point is there’s always something to pick up, sort, recycle.

This is a bad day, a literal bag buster of a haul.

This is a bad day, a literal bag buster of a haul.

There’s no escaping the fact that there is a lunatic fringe (apologies Red Rider) that seems hell bent on rolling down the window to jettison whatever they feel like tossing aside.

In about 90 minutes I’ll hit the bricks again for 2.5 miles. How much is out there is anybody’s guess. I’m hoping for quality over volume.


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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