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South Carolina is a pig sty …

I’m riding down the I-77 corridor into South Carolina with my friends Sondra and Jody.
The fall foliage is reported to be beautiful. However, that may be if your view were not obscured by the unbelievable amounts of trash along the roadside. I cannot repeat the terminology that Jody used to describe this unending scene of South Cakalacky slovenliness. He said something to the effect that “South Carolina is a dump.” But only worse. He did say, and this is a direct quote, “Literally you can’t go 10 feet without seeing more trash.” I thought it was more like five.
I know the state does not give two wits about the environment. I know that.
If Gov. Nikki Haley is serious about jobs, here’s a suggestion. The debris field will require the help of tens of thousands of South Carolinians. A conservative estimate to clean up this mess is 127,307 people. That’s roughly 71.4 per mile.
But look at the bright side: Once they’re done this week, they’ll have to return next week and the week after that, et al. It would be virtually full time work.
Then maybe I could see the trees.


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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