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Paper or plastic?

Wednesday, Sept. 25, 2014

‘Paper or plastic?’

We hear it all the time a grocery stores, but the resounding answer today is ‘plastic.’

In fact, it felt like a big day for plastic along the streets. At every turn there was another piece of plastic to be yanked from ground level; bottles, sheeting, wrappers, etc. I had to go to Plan B, i.e. since the bag was jam full, I’d let paper debris sit so as to save room for all manner of plastic.

Tonight's haul seemed to be overwhelming tilted toward plastic. Maybe I'm just dreaming that up. How's that different from any other day?

Tonight’s haul seemed to be overwhelming tilted toward plastic. Maybe I’m just dreaming that up. How’s that different from any other day?

But here’s what’s depressingly amazing: Yesterday was also a big day for plastic. So was Tuesday, and the Monday before that. Then there was the prior weekend.

I dunno. Maybe I’m just dreaming up this gi-normous amount of plastic. It sure as hell felt like a lot at the time.

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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