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A dispiriting new route … and Trump makes more disastrous environmental moves

My trash walks of late have branched out to new neighborhoods. That’s in part to add mileage to the daily slog and because plenty of litter has been eyed laying about. Why not spread the wealth, trash-retrieval wise?

Serious note to self: When embarking on a new path, take along an extra bag – or two. Multiple bags would have come in handy today.

The stretch of Colony and Sharon Roads through Southpark gets – I dunno – 25,000 cars per day? That could be high or low. Whatever it is, it’s a steady stream of one hell of a lot of traffic.

So it stands to reason more cars = more trash. Back in the day of longer walks this path was a routinely trod. No more. As a daily practice for the past several years I’ve stuck closer to home circling the big block around Philips Place. My zigs and zags probably amount to three miles (plus or minus a few hundred yards).

But new routes come at a high price: trash has accumulated for who knows how long – as I discovered in a dispiriting manner during this afternoon’s six mile trek.


This new tangent – a much longer path – took me through swanky parts of Myers Park, a ritzy enclave in Charlotte. But Lo and behold, there’s still more litter on the sidewalks and streets than there should be.

By the time I reached the intersection of Sharon and Runnymede, my Harris Teeter bag was stretched to its physical limit. Some blocks earlier, the decision was reluctantly made to let paper and non-plastic junk sit where it lay. Plastic bottles and polystyrene were the only two litter subgroups to make the ‘must pick up’ list.

There was simply no way to corral everything. The bag was beginning to tear and while it bugged me to leave litter behind I had no real choice. Better to pick up some junk than none at all. The last three miles, virtually nothing new was stuffed into the jam packed bag.

Still, it gives me more impetus to make a return trip – this time with another couple of bags.

President Trump continues to thumb his nose at the environment

It boggles the mind how Trump could become – allegedly – such a successful business man when he makes such transparently idiotic decisions on so many fronts. Personally, I think most of his wealth is based on real estate valuations. It certainly can’t be for his bellwether efforts that have gone belly up such as Trump Wines, Trump University, et al.

He apparently has put no – zero – thought into the concept that environmental protection makes sense.

He wiped an Obama era protection against coal mining waste off the books. It clears the way for coal waste to hit our waterways. His tone-deafness to global warming – the Pentagon is still moving ahead to plan for sea level rise impacts on military installations – is utterly stunning. My belief is he’s reached his decisions on a whim. There can be no real thought process beyond that.

His support for the two pipelines through the upper Midwest are further evidence of his hostility toward any concern for the land, water, and air.

My small rants don’t carry much weight beyond this thin page. But there are real news stories about real events that ought to have even Trump’s supporters wondering what the hell this guy is up to.

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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