All the way to the airport yesterday I composed a snarky letter to pin on the front door of the person who thinks our road is his (or her) instant beer can and fast food trash dump and land fill.
Not wanting our visitors’ experience of our beautiful road to be sullied by someone else’s thoughtless trashing of it, I stopped a dozen times between the house and hardtop to pick up the effluvium of mindless slobs and placed each item on top of the household trash already destined for the first greenbox.
By the time I reached the hardtop (two miles) the oversized bag was full to the top. I stopped at the dumpsters to deposit the stuff and move on.
I thought I had been careful to empty everything before putting it in the bag. Apparently not. And the half ounce of liquid that seeped into my floorboard carpet seems to have had its origin in a pig bowel or bladder.
We drove home from Roanoke with the windows open. And somewhere I hoped the recipient of my letter would let me know when I should bring MY trash for HIS front lawn and the bottle of swine urine for his carpet.