[Congressional Record Volume 145, Number 126 (Friday, September 24, 1999)]
[Senate]
[Pages S11452-S11454]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                         THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR

  Mr. BYRD. Mr. President, earlier this week we have heard again the 
chiming of the celestial clock, the autumnal equinox sounded the 
arrival of fall and the harvest season. In Washington, the skies today 
are sapphire blue and they look like parchment marked only with wispy 
glyphs of aircraft contrails. The air is crisp and the air is clear, 
with none of the steaminess that burdened our torrid summer days. 
Evenings serve up the glorious gradations of vivid colors from a 
palette only God could paint. Night comes earlier and night is cooler. 
The hum of air conditioners is giving way to the weight of blankets on 
the bed. In the words of Humbert Wolfe:


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       Listen! The wind is rising,
       and the air is wild with leaves.
       We have had our summer evenings,
       now for October eves!

  The year is advancing, cycling into its season of greatest abundance 
as crops mature and are harvested--such crops as they are. I have to 
add that, in the light of the terrible drought that has afflicted the 
eastern part of the United States, from Vermont to Tennessee. But as 
the crops, such as they are--mature and are harvested against the 
coming of winter. Branches are bent over with crisp apples and 
succulent pears, foretelling the apple butter festivals to come.
  Mr. President, we have great apple butter festivals in West Virginia. 
Go to Berkeley Springs in Morgan County, just an hour and a half's 
drive from here. Go to the apple butter festival there. And there are 
apple butter festivals in other parts of West Virginia.
  In my backyard, the squirrels and the chipmunks are gathering, and I 
play a little game with those squirrels and chipmunks. My wife, Erma, 
always sees to it that I have a large bag of peanuts. And when I look 
out the window and see squirrels, I go to the door, softly unlock the 
door, but the squirrels, they hear. And when they hear the little 
noises at the door they perk up, they sit up on their haunches and they 
look at the door, and then they break out into a run. They run to the 
door--my door, my door that opens on the back porch of my house--they 
run to the door because they sense that there is about to be a peanut 
that will emerge from a tiny crack when the door is opened. And they 
pounce upon that peanut.
  The chipmunk also runs for the peanut. Sometimes he wins and gets 
there first, but many times he doesn't get there first, and I can just 
sense the disappointment on his little face as he becomes very excited 
and runs here and there, thither and yon, looking for a peanut which 
the squirrel was first to get. So I throw out another peanut and the 
chipmunk gets that one.
  The squirrels and chipmunks are gathering and storing acorns and 
peanuts and every bit of corn and birdseed that they can steal from my 
feeders. Erma and I average about 40 pounds of bird food a week that we 
put in our bird feeders.
  The tomato plants--aha, my tomato plants, great farmer that I am--I, 
every year, put out a half-dozen tomato plants. This year was a 
terrible year for tomatoes. The tomato plants that I cultivate in my 
backyard are straining under their last load of ruby jewels. But the 
jewels have been so slow this year to become ruby-colored. They remain 
green. And, of course, Mr. President, you might understand the greed 
with which I approach those succulent fruits from the tomato plant. But 
they have suffered this year not only from the heat, but also from the 
drought, and then from the recent heavy rains.
  I am a fortunate farmer. My little crop is grown for pleasure, in the 
main. I try to furnish my own table and that of any of the 
grandchildren who happen to come by. My little crop is grown for 
pleasure. My clay pots have not been cracked by this summer's record 
drought, nor flooded by Hurricane Floyd. Many farmers upon whose labors 
my winter table depends have not been so fortunate, of course. Crops 
and livestock throughout the Nation have been buffeted by rather 
exceptional weather conditions this year, and particularly in the 
eastern part of the United States, from Tennessee to Vermont.
  Come November, farmers are likely to be saying prayers--and I should 
think they probably have already been saying prayers--prayers of relief 
because, indeed, there were some rains still left in the heavens.
  In our conference committees, Senators are working to provide 
assistance to our family farmers, so that they might be able to recover 
partially, at least, from this disastrous year and return to oversee 
the plowing and the calving, the planting and the lambing, the pruning 
and the blossoming once again, rather than giving up on their most 
honorable and arduous careers.
  I have no doubt that the distinguished Senator who presides over the 
Senate this afternoon with a degree of dignity and skill, that is so 
rare as a day in June, knows what I am talking about because he comes 
from Wyoming and there are farmers there and farms. He knows when I 
talk about calving, lambing, pruning, planting, and plowing, these are 
not strange, alien words to him.
  I hope that we will succeed in our efforts here in the Senate and 
speed up this relief to our farmers. It is much needed, and it should 
be on its way without delay. Those people are suffering.
  The march of the seasons also brings us nearer to the close of the 
year. This year, that event has a special import. We have just begun--I 
believe it was yesterday--on the 100-day countdown to a calendar change 
that has spawned many nicknames, Y2K being one of the most common in 
the United States.
  The concern over computer glitches caused by the date change 
certainly warrants our attention and corrective action. But the hype 
over Y2K and its alias, the ``millennium bug,'' has spawned a misguided 
perception regarding the true beginning of the third millennium since 
the birth of our Lord. It is a small but irritating example of sloppy, 
careless media reporting and advertising that reject the role of 
informer and educator in favor of following the popular trend. This 
trend might be termed ``the odometer theory,'' in which the physical 
act of watching all the nines roll over to zeros on a car's odometer 
becomes a symbolic ritual unrelated to how well the car is or is not 
running. Watching 1999--1-9-9-9--roll over to 2-0-0-0 may be a rare 
event that warrants a new year's party, but it does not truly signify 
anything except a new year.
  To be formal, accurate, and correct, we must not confuse, as so many 
are presently confusing, January 1, 2000, with the beginning of the new 
millennium, which it is not. January 1, 2000, does not begin the new 
millennium, unless we wish history to say that the second millennium 
contained only 999 years.
  When the Christian calendar, observed in the United States and, 
indeed, in most of the world, was established in the 6th century by the 
Scythian monk, chronologist, and scholar Dionysius Exiguus, died A.D. 
556, he began his calendar with January 1, year 1. Thus, the third 
millennium will begin on January 1, 2001, not 2000. Not 2-0-0-0. So 
forget it. The coming year of 2000 is not the beginning of the next 
millennium. It is only the end of the current millennium. And this 
coming January is not the beginning of the 21st century. The year 2000 
merely closes out the 20th century. Otherwise, we lose a year somewhere 
along the line--a good old fiddle tune. Somewhere along the line, we 
are going to throw away a year.
  This may be the new math, but according to the old math, there are 
100 years in every century for it to be a complete century, and there 
are 1,000 years in every millennium to complete a millennium. So let's 
be more accurate.
  We may party, we may think, we may say the millennium begins next 
year. So on December 31 of this year, when the clock strikes 12 
midnight, there are those who may wish to bring out the champagne and 
say: Ah, this is the new millennium!
  It is not. We may party like it is, this December, but I caution 
everyone against living it up as if the world were going to end or you 
may face a very embarrassing morning after.
  I thank you, Mr. President, for allowing me a few minutes to set the 
record straight. There it is. Unless the new math says that 999 years 
constitute a millennium, and that 99 years constitute a century, unless 
that is a given, we have to wait another year before the beginning of 
the third millennium.
  Let's set the record straight on that score. It may seem like a small 
thing, just a little thing, the cranky ranting of a cranky older 
fellow. The Bible says ``the little foxes that spoil the vines.'' I am 
talking about one of those little foxes.
  I am confident that others share my desire for accuracy, and my 
suspicion that reporters and commentators and public figures who fail 
on a fact so readily checked may be sloppy with other facts as well.
  Mr. President, I yield the floor.

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