Bobby plus 40

When a talking head these days cites the "post 9/11" world and how dangerous it is, it might be worthwhile to consider the halcyon days of 1968. That year the Soviet Union had 20,000 nuclear weapons targeted on hair trigger at the US, and we were targeted right back. They had just crushed Czechoslovakia's bid for liberal autonomy in the heart of Europe with tanks and machine guns. China was in the throes of the Cultural Revolution, killing and imprisoning millions. The War in Vietnam was at its peak, with a weekly US body count in the hundreds. At home, protests drew more than a million demonstrators into the streets. Martin Luther King was gunned down and cities burned across the country. Bobby Kennedy was gunned down on the brink of winning nomination for the presidency, and his party's convention in Chicago brought a new term to the American lexicon: police riot.

In the North Country that year, the last sound one heard before dropping off to sleep was the distant rumble of B-52s from Plattsburgh and Griffiths Air Bases, carrying their nuclear payloads around in circles, waiting for the "Go" code. Like many in my age group, I shifted my allegiance (grudgingly at first) from Eugene McCarthy to Bobby Kennedy. But by June I was ready to believe. How long would we have to live under the shadow of violence and fear? Then came the gunshots, and an answer of sorts.

The feeling of insecurity is a relative thing, and fear is an optional response. How we behave given the dangers we face is the measure of character.