MAINE, JULY, 2003

Hawkeye kept flipping through the channels.

"Fifty Years, two-thousand odd channels, technological improvements up the tuckus--and there's still nothing on. I only wish TV were a vast wasteland--at least junkyards have some nice stuff in them."

Giving up for the moment, he put on one of the news stations.

"Twenty-Four Hours a day. Who are they trying to impress, coffee fiends?"

If his body and that of his absent for the day wife Margaret showed no signs of being any older than when they were at the 4077th, certain things could still weary their spirits. Like the 'talking head' he now saw onscreen.

**Well, part of the problem on this long-troubled peninsula is the US administration's approach. Even if that were not a factor, we also have allies in that region who alternate between an actual desire for peaceful resolution and a fear of the dictatorial regime's actions. Add to that, we have a paranoid regime that seems sometimes to view any outside action, fair or foul, as provocative, and uses threats of war almost casually, making them all the harder to read. In short, the situation in North Korea is a volatile one, poised to explode.**

Part of the joy of living well past his time now came downstairs and sat next to Hawkeye. She was four-year old Blake Pierce, so named because Margaret feared that Henrietta was too old-fashioned.

"Daddy? Can I watch cartoons instead?"

Hawkeye nodded, and turned to one of the cartoon channels.

"No problem, kiddo."

"But weren't you watching that man talking?"

Pierce let the sound of rabbits, ducks, shotguns and falling anvils slowly drown out ancient concerns.

"No, honey. What that guy was talking about? Well, I've kind-of seen that one before