[Congressional Record (Bound Edition), Volume 145 (1999), Part 16] [Senate] [Pages 22625-22626] [From the U.S. 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: 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 [[Page 22626]] 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. ____________________