On the day Eric Frazer turned twenty-four, he was already light-bulb bald. It seemed to him an unwarranted fate; he still had acne, for heaven sakes, but he endured it with good grace. His two year-old crowned his knob with a brimming-bowl of Jello and pea puree. It was lime Jello to which Jessy, the baby, had made no small additions of prunes, milk and spit. Like dirty snow slipping from a thawing eave, the bonnet dribbled over his face and down his shirt, but he tolerated it with a smile and optimistic anticipation of the lad, eighteen years hence, bringing pop beaming pride at college hoops. In the elevator, his lime babyfood aroma drew unwelcome attention from the new department head. She amde a mental note to exclude the citronella from her New Year's bash. Being Christmas time, the hypocrites and crazies (lord, but the world is overrun by them) were raving about peace, world peace, national peace - you know, the standard drivel. Even on his twenty-fourth birthday, Eric Frazer was wise enough to recognize that peace is an individual, not a national dilemma. Like crocuses erupting unbidden from the March frost, peace follows naturally where the individual is tolerant of himself, his family and his surroundings. Peace is a matter of personal goodwill and acceptance even of the lime Jello that he'd just as soon not have had imposed upon him.