The palm trees put on white hoods, saber cacti were sheathed in cotton wool, children licked it off the balcony railings as if it were whipped cream. It stayed for a remarkable 24 hours and every car in the city sported a snowman on its roof! Pickup trucks carried snow people riders. All the photographs of the Great President on University Avenue had bushy snow eyebrows.
Everyone laughed. They laughed a lot over little things. When the old lady who was throwing her garbage out on the street nearly hit me with a plastic bottle, we both laughed; students running to catch the bus missed it, and they laughed; the girl who cut the party cake which fell apart, laughed. They all laughed when the Great President’s eyebrows slid down over his face.
Their laughter was lighter than snowflakes, as strong as spider silk. It was the fabric that protected them in that palace where the desert is unfailing, dark as the secret police and dependable as their poverty
Michael Izbicki grew up in a nondenominational church in California. A National Merit Scholarship finalist, he chose to go to the U.S. Naval Academy out of a sense of duty to his country during a time of war. At the naval academy he began to doubt whether the career to which he had committed himself could be squared with the tenets of just war doctrine. He got in trouble when he responded no to this exam question: "If given the order, would you launch a missile carrying a nuclear warhead?" After a four-year legal battle, the navy discharged him as a conscientious objector. Izbicki may have to reimburse the service for part or all of his education (New York Times, February 22).