I sat down the other day with my 94 year old father. I don't see him as often as I should and have become a stranger to his passions. He doesn't hear well. His memory serves him poorly and he keeps his thoughts to himself. Mom tells me that he often expresses concerns about the state of the planet and what that might mean for his grandchildren. On this day, our talk turned to mountains and climbing and the effect that global warming is having on climbing routes around the world. Dad's voice sounds dry and whispery now. He must frequently stop to search for the word he intends. His thoughts can leap. He doesn't talk for very long. He told me the following story.
"You know, I jog around this (waving his arm) residence as often as I am able. I have to rest frequently, so I have a series of benches that I sit on for a short while as I go around my route. A few days ago, I was out in the evening, when the sun had just set and the sky was glowing and I was looking up at it and seeing all of these"... (he searched for the word. I waited, then guessed, "contrails?")..."Yes, that's it; contrails. I was seeing all of these contrails in white contrast to the darkening sky, some crossing one another, some mostly parallel, some needle thin and others spreading and cottony, and as I looked I thought to myself, 'How long can they keep doing this?'"
How long, indeed?
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