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Hey, Einstein: you were right, it is insanity … Chinese to spend $360 billion on renewables … there’s money in litter

My trash/litter walks somehow seem to provide further validation of Einstein’s definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

I walked out the door at 6:34 on Sunday morning. That’s almost to the minute of my Saturday departure time.

In that 24 hours, there somehow was an even larger mass of litter to be corralled. More polystyrene cups, more beverage cans, more junk. More of everything. On the same &^%$*# path, no less.

How is it that I have this hope – apparently misguided – that somehow the world and the slobs in it will have changed overnight? I do the same thing every day and the results never, ever vary. Insanity, thy name is David.

China, one of the, if not the, largest coal-fired polluters will make an abrupt about face to curb its choking air pollution.

The country’s National Energy Administration said it will pump $350 billion into renewable power sources such as solar and wind according to a news article by the New York Times.

And there’s a jobs windfall in this energy reversal: it is expected that renewables will create 13 million jobs by 2020.

China’s major cities have long gagged on soot from coal-powered industries which has led to a public health crisis.

But there’s another reason China’s activism should catch the eye of coal supporter and noted climate change denier Donald Trump. According to the Times, China installed a wind turbine every hour of every day in 2015. Since it manufactures renewable energy equipment to meet for domestic and international demand, the Chinese are poised to be the industry leader in the renewables category.

Donald, are you listening? Or are you content to mindlessly Tweet on some other inane subject?

Who said there’s no money in picking up litter?

Finding coinage is a byproduct of keeping your eyes peeled to the pavement during the daily walks.

No one’s going to get rich on the pennies and dimes scrounged here and there. (I do wonder how the money finds its way to the ground along my path. Who would throw it out?


So what is litter volunteerism worth? $2.08 on a Sunday. That’s about .45 cents per mile.

In a glass-half-full way of thinking, maybe there is some dough in dredging up junk if I can sell sponsorship of this blog. (But I’ll need many, many, many more readers – in the tens of thousands – beyond the few dozen that follow Pick Up Your Path right now.)

And more money is found some days than others. Today was a Mother Lode of cash (relatively speaking): two $1 bills and eight pennies. That, and another $1, will get me a cup of coffee at Starbucks.

Unfortunately, Starbucks isn’t along my route.

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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