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A trail of trash at high speed …

I was headed down Quail Hollow Road to the drugstore when I came upon an unspeakable, squalid trail of junk alongside the road.

The arrow points to the scene of the crime, but the moron that spilled this trash just kept on going. How can we put a stop to such crimes against nature?

The arrow seemingly points to the scene of the crime, but the moron that spilled this trash just kept on going. How can we put a stop to such crimes against nature?

There’s no way to really tell what goes through a perp’s mind when they throw out diapers, liquor bottles and who knows what the hell else out of their car window. The sad trail of trash was about 25 yards long. My ‘Angry Man’ impersonation nearly resurrected himself but managed to remain bottled up. Perhaps venting isn’t so bad.

My initial intent, beyond just the photo evidence, was to pick the mess up but I didn’t have a bag, I was in work clothes, and frankly wasn’t in a place mentally or physically to play janitor.

So the best we have is a sad shot courtesy of some idiot who jettisoned a sizable amount of litter at relatively high speed. I think it takes a true psychologist to divine why people do such things. I’m not smart enough to figure that mystery out.

This sort of deplorable scene repeats itself with stunning regularity along the streets and roads I travel throughout the South – and other byways in the U.S., too. Every time I cruise past such a distressing occurrence, what comes to mind is the morality as to why dolts think it’s okay to toss things out of their car. But that’s up to the criminal to determine. Then again, it’s a moral dilemma none take the time to consider.

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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