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Final thoughts on the People’s Climate March …

All I know for sure is that I’m beat from the sun and heat – pretty apt for a march largely focused on global warming. How many thousands of marchers? Beats me. But my group of North Carolinians didn’t budge for one hour after the march started.

But there are one helluva lot of people who care deeply about the topic. They are avid, rabid even, about climate change. There was no talk overheard in sports or healthcare or anything else.

I do think Trump is a nitwit on this. In fact, the debate has convinced me he’s not a very good businessman. I say that because he’s not adaptive to business opportunities. As with Atlantic City and Trump University, et al (failures) he doesn’t acknowledge where new non-fossil fuel jobs will come from. Already – right now – the renewables sector has almost three times the jobs of a coal industry on its way out. But still, Trump does not sense the writing on the business wall. That’s a shortcoming to me.

But we will let that go for now. I’m focused on re-hydration – and trying to figure out how to be a better renewable energy advocate.

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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