Echoes of a Vanishing World

Lamenting the destruction of the world environment.

Actual photo from Daily Camera

Today is August 1st. I stepped out with my dog for our usual very early morning walk, and immediately, the atmosphere felt suffocating. The air was shockingly polluted, tainted by the raging wildfires far north in the beautiful Rocky Mountains. Even though the fires were distant and didn't pose an immediate threat to our neighborhood, the odor of burning wood filled the air, and the sky was darkened by the smoke blown in our direction.

These wildfires are a stark consequence of humanity's relentless destruction of the Earth. Fires are not just confined to Colorado; they stretch from the far northwest and even from Canada.

I grew up in New York City; now, at 81, those memories are vivid. Back then, the seasons were predictable. The school year ended on June 30th, and we all braced ourselves for the July heat. My friends and I played games in the streets during those hot July and August days, knowing August would bring both heat and humidity. We also expected the sudden, quick downpours that followed thickening clouds and rumbling skies.

Actual photo from the Daily Camera

We would run for cover in the nearby apartment buildings, sheltered by the staircases, and emerge, greeted by a fresh, beautiful aroma once the storm passed. As August ended, Labor Day approached, signaling our return to school and the cooling weather. It was as reliable as setting an alarm clock.

We expected deep, blanketing snow during the winter, transforming our world into a playground. We built snow fortresses, had snowball fights, and sledded down neighborhood hills, untroubled by the traffic that plagues today's streets.

But today, nothing is predictable. Here in Colorado, we face abnormally high temperatures and incredibly low humidity, even by Colorado standards. These conditions clash with my cherished memories, leading me to title this essay "Remembrances of Things Past."

I submit this essay with an ache in my heart and tears in my eyes, fearing for future generations who may never know the predictable rhythms and simple joys that once defined my childhood.