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Snow daze and a new stress syndrome …

It’s official. I’ve had it with winter. Poke me with a fork. I’m done.

This frostbite-inducing, mind-numbing, un-South like mix of cold rain, ice and near continuous sub-30 temperatures have pushed me over the edge into the free-fall of a total weather funk.

Along with way, it hijacked my trash walks with it. I’ve continued to trek but faster than usual just to get through the frigid torture and be done with it. The piles of junk normally spilled on the driveway, photographed and sorted for the recycler continued to sit in a heap behind the garage.


But no more.

In this freezing weather I  just couldn't bring myself to dump out the bags and catalog the trash. I'll get back to the routine - just not today.

In this freezing weather I just couldn’t bring myself to dump out the bags and catalog the trash. If a court were to convict me of litter negligence, they could throw away the key – as long as they banished me to a warm cell.

This morning, and for the first time ever, I audibly said “To hell with this.” I picked up the snow-covered, unsorted bags representing several days of litter patrols and dumped them into the recycle bins. We’ll let the Charlotte/Mecklenburg trash authorities decide what goes where.

It kills me to do so, but if I were in a court of law, I would claim some sort of weather-induced duress, aka MWWS (Mid Winter Weather Syndrome). The judge would no doubt see through this ruse/smoke screen and would sentence me to walk more laps around my neighborhood.

But I’d ask for some type of stay to delay the punishment. Like, say, until May 15. My extremities should be warmed up by then.


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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