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A reasonable day and the Politics of Trash II …

There’s something about heading out the door at 5:46 a.m. on a Saturday morning that shouldn’t sit right with me. But the sleep demons won’t allow added shuteye so it’s up and at ’em. The straightest route I’ll follow all day is the beeline to the coffee grinder and percolator. Must-fire-that-mother-up.

It’s lightly raining and 46F this morning but wind-free. As morning walks go, this is entirely tolerable. The clouds and dampness contribute to the stillness. There is virtually no sound for the first 600 yards beyond my shuffle and minor huffing and puffing. The occasional car as I near Colony Road is only sign that others are up and about.

The song de jour today is Can’t Find My Way Home by Steve Winwood and Eric Clapton a few years back at the Crossroads Guitar Festival. It’s an incredible performance on YouTube based on their time with Blind Faith:

Come down off your throne and leave your body alone.
Somebody must change.
You are the reason I’ve been waiting so long …

75 minutes later, my damp but enjoyable walk is complete. The bag 75% filled with routine finds is stowed behind the garage until adequate light allows for a photo.

Trash is an a-political issue. It knows no sides, no ideology. It shouldn't be where it is, and I'm damned committed to getting it the hell out of the way.

Trash really is an a-political issue. It knows no sides, no ideology. It shouldn’t be where it is, and I’m damned committed to getting it the hell out of the way.

Waiting for me is a message from my friend and photographic contributor Sherry who tells me “You are a little off track with your trash blogs … people don’t want political ramblings and opinions.” She’s referring, I think, to my most recent rant against the bobble heads at Fox News and an anti-environment GOP.

I don’t entirely disagree with her. Politics in general is over my head. What I can get my mind around, however, is that my minuscule little effort is indeed part of the larger save-our-world picture. It is interconnected in some way, some how.

Perhaps my reference to larger issues should cite those with larger brain pans who can espouse big picture views. My little world is only 3+ miles, and perhaps I should tend to my knitting. No doubt, though, what I do on dreary mornings like this is part of the environmental patchwork. In that vein, every little bit helps, even one bag at a 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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