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Streamside heroes: Boy Scout Troop 118 …

You’ve got to tip your hat to the young men of Boy Scout Troop 118 in south Charlotte.

On a recent Saturday morning the boys and their adult leaders did us all a huge favor by removing 600 pounds of old tires, bottles, broken lawn chairs and other debris out of a four mile stretch of McAlpine Creek.

The troop split into sub-groups to tackle sections of the creek and they deposited their finds at whatever bridge they happened to be closest to. I happened upon them by chance and swung my car around to get a quick snapshot. The photo of a scant few troop members and one adult leader doesn’t do the enormity of their dirty, sodden community service much justice.

One of the adult leaders said the estimated 600 pound haul was actually lower than normal; no doubt that’s because the troop treats the stream clean up as an annual event.

The troop is based out of St. Stephen United Methodist Church. Way to go guys!img_3238.jpg

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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