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One of those days …

6 a.m., Nov. 1

It’s gonna be a raw one.

As I shove off in the early morning gloom, it’s very clear the weather forecasters nailed it: cold, rainy, windy. Where are the 80F temps from just a few days ago? It will be one of those days.

I can only hope my go-cup of ultra-dark roast coffee will last me all the way around. I’m usually lucky if it makes it halfway.

As trash picking up jaunts go, this will be iffy at best. Every rain-splattered leaf shines like plastic. If I literally don’t step on something, chances are good I won’t see it in the darkness.

But big sheets of plastic and shopping bags tend to stand out, so those are among my first claims.

It's too wet this morning to dump the bag's contents onto the driveway. That will wait for drier conditions.

It’s too wet this morning to dump the bag’s contents onto the driveway. That will wait for drier conditions.

As predicted, I’m down to cold dregs of coffee almost precisely at the halfway mark on Fairview Road just past Philips Place. With the liquid warmth gone, my gait shifts from the typical cavalier pace to more of a giddy-up.

The pickings are rather slim by weekend morning standards although the bag is slowly but surely filling up with debris. In something of a surprise for a post-Halloween morning, my first adult beverage containers don’t reveal themselves until the last 500 yards or so along Sharon View Road. One is a Coors Light can. Why is it always a Coors Light can along this stretch of street? It’s a called shot.

This practice will be repeated Sunday morning. A guy can only do the best he can. Still, both mornings are the best time of the week for me. A little exercise in the quiet dark, and a little more litter removed from circulation. I can deal with that.

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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