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Living in a glass house of thin panes …

I’ve been persistently unmerciful to the folks called out in this column as slobs, idiots, dolts, miscreants, morons, doofuses and however else they’ve been labeled. As they say, they know who they are.

Individually they might be decent enough sorts. It doesn’t often appear to me that way, however, as I clean up their messes during afternoon or early morning walks.

But we all have our foibles. If this were an over-the-air broadcast rather than a tepid blog, perhaps those I call out would invoke the FCC’s equal time clause to cast a harsh light on the low points of their accuser. Certainly there are many – way too many – of my own failings worthy of potshots. Where to start? Lord knows.

We all have our weak points. I guess I've made a persistent habit of pointing out the faults of others.

We all have our weak points. I guess I’ve made a persistent habit of pointing out the faults of others at the expense of my own.

Perhaps there are blogs that slam the likes of me because of consistently bad cooking, serial procrastination, a hyper-messy office desk or any of my poor habits/practices. I confess to all of those and more.

But I guess the local, regional, national and global environment mean enough to me to somewhat validate my continued repudiation of others who do bad things that are visibly and physically damaging to our world.

So yeah, I live in a glass house of thin panes and won’t cower from my own litany of sins. Feel free to drop off a bag of stones at the front porch. I’ll throw the first one.

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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