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A record if records were kept …

There are no records kept of what’s picked up and how much. (What’s really weird/sick/truly odd is that back in the day when this whole shebang started, I used to keep a list on paper of what I retrieved by product brand name. That stupid idea was relegated quickly to the dust bin of bad ideas.)

Pre-dump on driveway. No way this bag could hold another thing.

Pre-dump on driveway. No way this bag could hold another thing.

If competent counsel were to advise me, my disclaimer would read something like “All representations of volumes, quantities, walker discomforts and bitches and other descriptions contained therein are good faith estimates.”

But if records were kept of beverage containers stuffed into a plastic bag, today’s haul would be a single day record.

Post-dump on driveway. If records were kept, this would be it.

Post-dump on driveway. If records were kept, this would be it.

I can’t recall, ever, picking up more than 20 plastic bottles to say nothing of adult beverage containers (I once picked up a case of empties, but to my good fortune, two unopened cans of Bud Light were in the bottom. A guy has to get lucky every once in a while).

But this morning was a bag-stretching, bin-busting take of trash that weighed 7 – 8 lbs. It was a throwback morning in a way; there was so much litter found that the last half mile I went old school by clutching finds in my right hand as was done when I first started this habit. Fortunately for you, at least the legal disclaimer didn’t say anything about profanities because today might have broken another kind of record.

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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