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Bozos and the difference a day makes …

Saturday’s snit is already in the rear view mirror.

Not that there weren’t moments this morning that could have tipped the scales toward snit II.

It was a big bagful this morning. My fuse remained unlit.

It was a big bagful this morning. My fuse remained unlit.

It was too cold – 32F at 6 a.m. – for my liking. (It is spring, isn’t it?) Within 24 hours of the prior day’s curse-a-palooza, the path was again clogged with all manner of junk and trash (but at least I toted the correct bag this morning). The coffee didn’t stay as hot as usual in the brisk air and it was consumed far too early in the walk.

I went about the business is a more civil, stoic manner (there was a substantial drop in the utterance of F-bombs from yesterday’s profanity-laced tirade). Although for the first time ever, slobs were labeled as ‘Bozos,’ a name borrowed from the old clown show that first aired in Chicago (WGN?) a long, long time ago.

So yeah, yesterday is in my past. I suspect, though, that ‘Angry Man’ may seep through from time to time – but hopefully in more manageable proportions.

I have to tip my hat to the makers of Harris Teeter grocery bags - the bags stretch, but rarely break.

I have to tip my hat to the makers of Harris Teeter grocery bags – the bags stretch, but rarely break. They hold a lot of crap.

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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