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Don’t dump things down storm drains …

This is my last post from St. Paul. I promise (I leave about 2:00 p.m. today so it better be).

The mighty Mississippi winds through the Twin Cities. By this point it’s already a big river and the locals spend a lot of time around and on it. 

It stands to reason they take a protective view of the arterial waterway. And that extends to how they treat the river’s final defense against litter and trash: storm drains. I’ve nagged people about these steel barriers before but St. Paul takes it to a whole new level. 

When we arrived at my daughter’s home yesterday, the city had affixed a flyer on the doorknob to let residents know about the importance of these metal buffers. This is good government at work. 

But it got better. 

Painted adjacent to the storm drains is an admonition To “Keep ’em clean. Drains to river.” I love this activism. It makes me think of the rivers I’ve lived next to that could benefit from the same environmental sensitivity: the Missouri, the Platte, the Des Moines and Catawba rivers. Nice to see a big city taking the lead. I wish others would follow suit. 

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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