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Dumb luck contains rupture of gas pipeline in Alabama … Do you feel hot, too? You should … Another day, more trash

The rupture of fuel pipeline in Alabama came perilously close to damaging a biodiverse river

The rupture of a section of a 5,500 mile fuel pipeline that spilled 338,000 gallons of gasoline in Alabama came very close to spilling into the biodiverse Cahaba river system, one of the most biologically diverse spots in the country, prized by scientists for its concentration of endangered species.

Instead of flowing into the waterway, the fuel poured by happenstance into an adjacent retaining pond of a mining company according to multiple news sources.

The proximity of the retaining pond amounted to dumb luck; otherwise, the Cahaba bears the brunt of the environmental damage.

Of course, the larger concern for Southeastern states was the pinch on fuel supplies. Governors in several states decried the economic damage of fuel shortages. If only they would show as much concern for the environment.

The ruptured section of pipeline has been repaired and the fossil fuels are flowing.

August heat worldwide was another world record – of the wrong kind

Perhaps we need to rephrase the term ‘global warming’ to ‘global heating.’

This past August was the hottest August since records have been kept since 1880 – and was the 16th straight month of record-breaking heat according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA).

The average world temperature was 61.74 degrees Fahrenheit, up .09 degrees from August, 2015.

Worse still: NOAA reports this latest zinger of heat puts 2016 squarely on track to break the 2015 record as the hottest year ever. Six of the hottest 17 months ever have occured in 2015 and 2016.

And still no response from our presidential candidates? We can only hope this is a debate topic – but let’s not hold our collective breaths.

Can someone get me a fan, please?

The reward is in the doing.

Near the merciful conclusion of my 95 minute Saturday morning walk (commenced at 5:55 a.m., ugh) a woman and her hard-charging lab caught up to me.

She’d seen me doing this dirty work before and wanted to pay me a compliment. “I don’t know how you stay motivated,” she said, and with that, she and the dog moved on.

Actually, motivation is the easy part. It’s what pushes me out of bed, knowing that there is junk out there waiting to be bagged and recycled. Motivation implies some end reward for whatever your activity may be. That’s true. Our reward is some degree of satisfaction.


No doubt about it – hubcaps aren’t cool. No wonder people don’t make much eye contact when we pass each other on the sidewalk

In a morbid, sleepless way, I look forward to getting up and out the door. Unsavory as the working end of the trek may be, there is still the sense of making a contribution to my neighborhood and to Charlotte (although walking around with a busted hubcap under your arm isn’t the epitome of cool).

Still, there is a bright side to wrapping up the jaunt. Nothing like a fresh pot of coffee to get the rest of the day started.


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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