Isuppose many of us are going through the same kind of existential angst I am when I think about climate change. On the one hand, I have a granddaughter who graduates High School this year and I can remember how large the world was for me at that age — the opportunities, the possible futures, young love, the sheer exuberance of living. It is the best of times.
But then I swing back to a very dark secret — something one can’t bring up in polite company. It was the first thought I had when my son told me they were expecting a baby. What will her life be like, I wondered, in 2040, 2060, and 2090? She will reach my present age in 2082, assuming she can survive what I know is coming. Her world will not look like the General Motors Futurama of the 1939 World’s Fair, with fully autonomous cars, vertical farms for artificially produced crops, and rooftop platforms on which to park personal flying machines or land your jet pack.