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The first Saturday of each month: Neighborhood Pick Up Your Path Day …

Happy Independence Day to everyone. We have a great nation.

But it’s dirty with trash and litter and junk strewn everywhere on every street and along every sidewalk. It debases our communities.


It’s time we celebrated the U.S.A. in a different – and more frequent – manner.

Herewith, let’s declare the first Saturday of each month to be Neighborhood Pick Up Your Path Day.

It’s a simple way for sidewalk patriots to honor our country. Devote your daily walk, however long or short it may be, to cleaning up your neighborhood. Take a bag with you and pick up what you can. It doesn’t have to be a lot, just enough to make your neighborhood a little cleaner, a little more welcoming. (I’ll promote the first Saturday regularly on blog posts.)

For the calendar-minded, here are some near-term Saturdays through the end of this year that you can mark down right now:

August 5

September 2

October 7

November 4

December 2

Of course, Pickupyourpath.com would love to have photos of your trash exploits. You can post them to the Pick Up Your Path Facebook page, too.

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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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