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Einstein’s theory of insanity …

I’ll run roughshod over two sets of alleged ‘quotes’ today.

The first relates to this morning’s weather as ‘not fit for man or beast.’ I’m not sure of the source, but whoever coined it must’ve been referring to this particular Sunday morning; 40-ish and steady rain. Cold is, I think, a product of wind, of which there was none, so the elements weren’t entirely uncomfortable.

It relates to the second iffy quote, this one attributed to but likely not actually said by Albert Einstein: The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. (The closest I’ll ever get to such brainpower is if someone tells me ‘Way to go, Einstein.’)

My walks have something in common with what the great man may or may not have said: In my daily optimism, my hope is that there will be nothing, or at least less of something, to pick up. Invariably, I am proven wrong. This morning was no different.

My first major find was the fraying remnant of a plastic bag snared on a sprig of kudzu about 15 feet off my path. The retrieval was easy; a few steps atop the dormant vine and the bag was now mine.

Although the rain makes spotting trashy prey tough in the darkness, across the six lanes of Fairview Road was a plastic bag filled with something. There’s little to no traffic at this time of the morning (6:20 departure) so a slow beeline was made to the shopping bag filled with an assortment of McDonalds’ discards; a big polystyrene cup and burger box plus other goodies (I’ve yet to inventory the contents since it was too rainy to dump out the junk when I finished my stroll). At least the bag was neatly tied for easy pick up & carry.

The coffee officially ran out on Fairview adjacent to Luna, a nice shop at Philips Place.

This precise contents of this morning's three bag bounty won't be known until it is strew across my driveway for the usual photo op.

This precise contents of this morning’s three bag bounty won’t be known until it is strew across my driveway for the usual photo op.

Another few hundred yards later was the residue from a fender bender. There must’ve been 20-25 pieces of what was the once-shiny grille of a car. My rough guess is $1,500 in damage. That won’t brighten someone’s holiday.

I won’t bore you more than I already do with what else filled up my Harris Teeter bag. Suffice to say it was the usual and sundry.

But a silhouette loomed in the middle of my path just short of the corner of Sharon Road and Sharon View Road. It was another big bag, a paper bag from Outback filled with a couple of to-go boxes and other junk TBD. But at least the bag had handles. Now I am a true bag-man with three bags.

It’s of no matter if Einstein actually said what people say he said. Most days I wouldn’t pass any sort of sanity test. I suppose the people who toss litter aside wouldn’t pass the test, either.

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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