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Back to gem-less BAU … and another samaritan does some dirty work

No diamond and 18k gold rings were stumbled upon this morning. It meant the best I could do was pick up trash and leave valuables for another day.


But I’m cool with that. To find something worth real money is like stumbling across the proverbial needle in a haystack. It was back to business as usual for the morning stroll.

Speaking of cool, the a.m. temps were brisk by North Carolina standards: in the mid 50s. There was a breeze, perhaps a precursor of Hurricane Irma.

I was out the door by 6:05, to be greeted by an owl hooting in the distance. That’s the sort of morning noise I can live with. Why it hoots and for whom makes for interesting inner conjecture  in the darkness.

The path was relatively clean for the first half mile. And I know why.

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You can go ahead and look closely, but you’ll find no gold rings in this photo.

Yesterday as I neared the intersection of Sharon View and Colony Roads, there was a guy with two big bags filled with litter. He was on the far side of the intersection, perhaps 75 yards away, and he was on a mission. He picked up debris and kept on moving southward on Colony at a good clip. I couldn’t very well yell a congratulatory message since between he and I were two women walking their dogs. Who knows what they would’ve thought.

Still, it was good to see someone caught red handed (grimy handed?) in the act of helping to keep his neighborhood spic and span. The unknown samaritan was doing his duty and we are all the better off for it. I don’t know your name, pal, but thanks.

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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