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Odds & ends and one offs …

For the compulsive, picking up litter is a 24/7 endeavor.

So this morning I’m motoring out of the fancy Harris Teeter (aka ‘Taj-Ma-Teeter’) on Morrison when I spied this bit of plastic that threatened to wash down into the storm drain with the next big rain. A quick check of my rearview mirrors for cars behind me, and bingo, the driver side door opens.

Gotcha - this plastic ain't going nowhere other than my recycle bin anytime soon.

Gotcha – this plastic ain’t going nowhere other than my recycle bin anytime soon.

Without leaving my comfy seat (is that possible in a Camry?), the Bud Light shrink wrap plastic is corralled and is now safely stowed in my recycle bin. Grabbing junk off the precipice of a storm drain is particularly satisfying.

It’s not at all unusual for me to pick up odds & ends from parking lots. I don’t spend untold amounts of time on this nor are untold amounts of stuff collected; only when a bit of trash or two is within range do I spring – amble, really – into action. Typically the trunk lid is popped open and the offending one offs are tossed inside.

Moral of the story: you can take the collector away from his path, but you can’t take the trash away from the collector.

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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