I had an idea for a children’s book which turned, quickly, into a climate chaos nightmare:
Vermont Father explains to his young daughter that spring is coming soon — some spirit or other has wrapped it up all nice and neat and put it in the mail, but it’s coming from a long way off so we don’t know exactly when it will arrive. She goes to the post office and asks the clerk if spring has come yet, and he says, not yet, any day now, and then spring comes and it is really exciting and beautiful (and it didn’t come from a box in the post office, either).
But then she grows up and she has some kids (still in Vermont) and when they ask her when spring will come she has to say, “I don’t know,” because she doesn’t.
Or she tells them that story and they say, “what’s spring?”
Or that is how she explains spring, the idea that the seasons used to be predictable, to them.
…I haven’t figured out how to make this have a happy ending except the part where there is still a family telling stories, and having children who are curious, learning, living…
That’s still worth striving for, isn’t it?