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A matter of degrees …

It occurred to me on today’s dawn patrol that there is something pitiable about near-constant picking up after hooligans and goobers (see redneck naming conventions in the Feb. 7 post).

Wishing won't make litter go away. It's there and it needs to be contained. This morning's haul wasn't any different from most Saturdays. It's just the way it is.

Wishing won’t make litter go away. It’s there and it needs to be contained. This morning’s haul wasn’t any different from most Saturdays. It’s just the way it is.

Afternoon after afternoon and weekend morning after weekend morning, it just never stops. It never ceases. Some amount of junk is always there. Slobs throw crap out, I pick it up. That’s how it works. Yet for sidewalk caretakers, there is satisfaction in keeping a stretch of path clean and seeing recyclables reenter the manufacturing chain. That’s all good.

But I just wish that there would be more time to enjoy the stroll for the stroll’s sake and less for the trash part of it. I suppose it’s a matter of degrees. You take the good with the bad. It’s just that the bad seems to outweigh the good on a daily basis.

You just live with it and walk on.

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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