TO MANY MORE GOOD LIVES

It was not the start of the third millenium but the first day of a new year
when frivolity took a time-out.

Almost 70 years into the revolution, a faded but steadfast dream anchored to
the past by an immense bureaucracy, breached the missile gap with a tentative
message to the people of the other side.  The steward of this dream, a balding
man in his late 50s with a discolored spot on his forehead glanced occasionally
to the prompter on his left as he delivered stiff greetings to the enemy.

Hours earlier, on the other side of the world, the snow was interrupted first
by a flicker, then a picture of a man who nodded his head as he spoke. The man
calmly delivered his speech, looking directly out from the television as if he
could see each viewer.

The words came forth, separated by the distance between two markedly divergent
national cultures;  separated by mutual distrust;  separated by the technology
which transmitted them.

The words came forth, so similar in context that style of delivery became the
only rule by which measure of their impact could be taken.

In America, Mikhail Gorbachev's appearance was a last-minute side show in a
carnival of sport.  Across the vast expanse of the Soviet Union, Ronald
Reagan's appearance caromed like a billiard ball.

The only tangible results of the November Summit meetings in Geneva, these New
Year's greetings were heard and forgotten by publics which had long since
relinquished their title to the arsenals;  rather, they sought the pleasures
and trials of daily living, electing the continuity of family and clan.

"Plus ca change, c'est la meme chose."  Peasants, the politically powerless,
know war will come some day.  Peasants are the continuity of the civilized
world;	they have survived horrors;  they have survived governments.

Many generations of good lives have been lived in the grey shadow of
Armageddon.

A toast:  "To many more good lives."