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Summer in the city …

I don’t get to Uptown Charlotte very much. Sometimes for work, but mostly for fun.

Yesterday was the former. I wonder if other meeting attendees wonder, like me, if the session could possibly be any more boring. When people say something is “dry as toast,” such a back-handed compliment would be an upgrade for this session.

So our handlers released us from our bondage for a break at precisely the moment they advertise for it on the agenda. Rather than hobnob, I beat an escape to the nearest door to the outside and temporary freedom.

It’s a nice enough day. There’s no sense wandering too far since we’re expected back soon for more spellbinding rapture. I’m standing on the curb watching cars and bikes pass by. You need to understand I spend a good portion of my sidewalk time peering down for obvious reasons. I look down directly into a storm drain. What a forlorn view it is. Rather than a repository for rain water, it is nearly full with trash. I whip out my iPhone 5 to snap a picture of this urban blight. The few regular readers here know where this junk will eventually settle: In the closest waterway. It depresses me even more than what I’m about to return to inside. What’s sad is I could have strolled in any direction and likely found a drain in the same condition.

But there’s not much to do about it now. I’m due inside for more fun. So I leave the scene as it sits and head back to my seat. Looks like I can’t win outside or in.

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.

1 Comment on Summer in the city …

  1. As Churchill said, “Nevah give up! Nevah surrender.”

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