The summer of 2007 has been long and lonely for Marcus Harnack. Frank Kedzic, the metallurgist at Hubbard Foundry (and perhaps Marcus’ biggest fan), made sure that Marcus got in a lot of overtime at the foundry with a nice raise in pay. The summer job proved to be Marcus’ saving grace, not only because it generated enough income to pay for another year at Hubbard State University, but also because it temporarily diverted his mind from thinking about his love, Subani, who has been spending the summer with her family in Sri Lanka.

To Marcus it seems like an eternity since he embraced and kissed Subani at O’Hare airport last May. Prior to her trip back home she hadn’t told her parents about Marcus and he has been desperately worried about the many educated and handsome men that her parents might introduce to her over the summer as potential suitors. She is, after all, the most beautiful woman he has ever laid eyes on. Men are attracted to beauty such as hers and Marcus has suffered from the thought of losing Subani to a handsome Sri Lankan medical doctor or Ph.D. He is also mildly disturbed because Subani has not used “instant messenger” all summer, preferring instead to email him from a new hotmail account that she created right after her arrival in Colombo. While instant messenger is much more personal and intimate than email, Subani has explained that its use might easily be detected by her parents, the house servants, or other family members. A newly created hotmail account is more easily concealed. Subani’s emails indicate that she has not yet told her parents about him and that she does not intend to bring up the subject at all this year. She feels that the time is not right and that the disclosure of their dating would just infuriate her father.

While Subani’s emails have expressed her continual devotion and love for Marcus, Sri Lanka is a long way from Hubbard, Wisconsin. Marcus has been dogged by repeated thoughts that Subani may actually be in the arms of another man. There are no facts to warrant such feelings, but there are also no facts to the contrary. Having the wisdom not to reveal his jealousy to Subani, for fear of doubting her love for him, Marcus has been tortured by the nearly four-month separation from a woman that he knows he cannot live without. At night he dreams of making love to her upon when she returns, yet his next thought harbors the fear that she may not return at all for her Junior year at Hubbard State University.

Over the summer Marcus got up to Minneapolis to spend a couple of long weekends with his old high school buddy Frank Rogers, who was recently promoted to a senior manager position at Price Waterhouse Coopers in Minneapolis. Frank is living the life. Single, with a nice income, Frank’s weekends are spent partying with some of the finest chicks in Minneapolis. Frank’s friends, all in their late twenties and early thirties, represent the new elite of college grads, rapidly advancing in their careers as business analysts or mid level managers with leading corporations. They drive fancy cars, own expensive condos, dine at the twin cities’ fanciest restaurants, drink only imported beer, and sample the finest wines from Europe and California. Marcus enjoys the fellowship and a couple of nice-looking blondes have shown interest in him, but it has been easy for the handsome Marcus to resist their overtures. As long as the body and soul of Subani exists on this planet, she is the only woman for him; she and no other! To Marcus, the pale complexion of Uptown blondes pales in comparison to Subani’s lovely brown skin! In the mind of Marcus Harnack the caress of Subani’s smooth, chocolate shoulders has no earthly comparison. He can’t wait for her return!

So it is, on an incredibly sunny August afternoon while Marcus selects his textbooks for the upcoming fall semester, that his cell phone alerts him to an incoming text message. It reads: “Leaving La Guardia, 1:30 p.m. Arriving O’Hare, AA flight 307, 2:55 p.m. Friday, August 31. Can you meet me?”

He texts her back in a flash: “Nothing will keep me away from O’Hare that day! I love you so much!”

Wednesday night, August 15, 2007 the Cincinnati Reds were hosted by the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley Field. The game, which had substantial playoff importance for the Cubs, had been delayed by rain. Not staying up long enough to hear the final outcome, it wasn’t until Thursday morning that I found out that the Cubs had dropped an 11-9 decision to the Reds. After muttering a few silent expletives, I arose, determined to have this Cubs loss make me grouchy for at least a few minutes. That’s when I found out about something else that had happened while I was asleep, a devastating earthquake in Peru, killing hundreds of people.

It was at that moment that the inconsequential nature of my concerns became apparent. Here were hundreds of people in Peru who had lost relatives and friends, not to mention their homes and belongings. Then there was poor me, suffering because one of my favorite baseball teams had lost a game on the north side of Chicago. Let me see, an earthquake versus the outcome of a baseball game. I guess we know who really has a problem.

On August 6, 2007 a coal mine collapsed in Utah trapping six miners. On August 18, 2007 another three miners were killed trying to rescue the original six. Assuming that the original six miners can’t be rescued, that makes nine mining deaths in 12 days. That’s bad news, but when taken in the context of a broader world, our mining tragedy doesn’t even scratch the surface. Just this week, on August 18, Chinese news sources confirmed that 172 miners have been trapped by floodwaters in a coal mining accident in Shandong province. It remains to be seen if they will survive, but the Chinese Government officially acknowledged the deaths of 2,800 coal miners in China during calendar year 2006. Do the math and that’s 7.67 miners per day. The Utah death toll (nine) over the past twelve days equals .75 miners per day, making the “normal” Chinese average daily death rate ten times greater than our average during what we call a “mining disaster”.

On August 1, 2007 the I-35W bridge collapsed in Minneapolis with a death toll of 13 people. This was a disaster in the United States and has been covered extensively in the US media for over two weeks. Thirteen days later, on August 14, 2007 a bridge under construction at Fenghuang in Hunan province, China, collapsed killing more than 40 construction workers. The bridge was being built without steel reinforcement rods so that it would appear similar to other historic structures in the area. The Chinese bridge accident killed three times as many people as the Minneapolis disaster, yet it got just a mere mention in the US media.

You could make many conclusions from the above disaster statistics. You might conclude that there is a higher value placed on life in the United States than in many other nations. You might deduce that China is a really unsafe place to work, especially if you’re a coal miner. You might conclude that the USA is a pretty good place to live, even during disasters. You may even conclude that Americans are spoiled, spending far too much time complaining about things that most of the world’s people consider trivial. In my book, you’d be right on all four counts.

Most of us have our pet peeves regarding the driving habits of others. I’ll have to admit that after 42 years behind the wheel, I’ve got mine also. I’m going to go through a couple of them now, with one caveat; all descriptions assume normal driving conditions with no road construction and good weather, etc.

A lot of my irritation is sourced around divers who do stupid things in the left (passing) lane of an interstate highway. I’ve got a philosophy about the passing lane; namely that it is for PASSING! Nothing irks me more than when I approach someone in the passing lane that won’t get over to the right lane to let me pass. Some of these drivers are stubborn. They’re going the posted speed limit and they believe that it is their sworn duty not to let anyone exceed that limit. Others are just plain unobservant, either zoning out to music or blabbing on their cell phones. I don’t care what the posted speed limit is; get the heck over and let the guy in the fast lane pass. If you’re going 1000 miles an hour in the passing lane and a guy going 1020 comes up behind you, get over and let him pass! It’s not your job to enforce the speeding laws, that’s why we pay taxes and hire cops.

Another thing that bugs me is when I’m in the passing lane going around slower traffic and some guy comes up behind me at a high rate of speed, tailgating me and wanting to pass. As soon as I can get around the vehicle I’m passing, I immediately shift to the right lane to allow him to get around me. After all, he’s in a hurry! But then, what does he do? He takes 2 minutes to finally pass me, with most of that time spent in my mirror’s blind spot. Hey, man, I’m not in a road race here. If you want to go around me, that’s fine with me. Be my guest! But if you want to actually pass me, then step on the pedal and get around me, don’t sit in my blind spot for 5 minutes! Likewise, when I’m passing a vehicle that is going just a bit slower than my vehicle I accelerate past him (even if I have to exceed the posted limit for a few seconds) so that I am not in his blind spot. I don’t want that guy to change lanes and pull left into my lane at a high rate of speed because he couldn’t see me in his blind spot. If you’re in someone’s blind spot, don’t hang around there for long because you jeopardize your safety as well as the life of the guy you’re passing.

My city driving pet peeve is the lack of “street smarts” exhibited by many drivers while attempting to turn left at a traffic light. When I was just a kid and my Mother was teaching me to drive, I was waiting to turn left at a green light but I hadn’t yet entered the intersection. Oncoming traffic was heavy and there was no car ahead of me. My Mom said, “Go ahead and pull straight forward into the intersection and get in position to make your left turn.” I said, “But Mom, if I get into the intersection to make my left turn and the light turns red, I’ll be blocking the intersection!” She said, “Precisely, and what do you think the oncoming cars will do when they can’t proceed through the intersection because your car is in the way? They won’t have any other choice but to wait for you to make your left turn before they can go ahead!”

I didn’t always listen to Mom, but my golly, I learned that lesson fast. That was the last time I didn’t enter the intersection when making a left turn when the light was green! Once in a while I’ll be behind a driver who won’t enter the intersection when making a left turn. If they enter the intersection I can usually get right behind them and two of us can turn the corner when the light turns red, but both of us are stuck waiting through another traffic light if they haven’t learned the lesson Mom taught me. The left turn folks don’t bug me as much as the passing lane hogs, largely because I think a lot of them just haven’t been educated by people as wise as my Mom.

A last caution is in order. When someone acts like a jerk and makes you mad when you’re driving, don’t retaliate. If the dope won’t get over when you want to pass, just swallow your pride and go around him on the right side. Playing bumper cars at 70 mph (or even 20 mph) isn’t a smart game for anyone, so swallow your pride and try to forget what a total idiot he is! When you arrive home safely your wife and kids will be happy. Moreover, the idiot and his idiot wife and his idiot kids will also be happy!

Last weekend my wife and I traveled to Omaha, Nebraska for my 40th High School Reunion. It is a humbling fact to realize that all of us are now 58 years old, rapidly approaching our sixties. There were 563 people in my graduating class but unfortunately only about 60 showed up for the reunion. I was disappointed that none of the 4 or 5 people that were my closest friends showed up. That’s partly my fault because other than my attendance at our 25th class reunion, I haven’t contacted or corresponded with anyone in my High School class for the last fifteen years. Alas, friendships need cultivating, and I haven’t plowed those fields for many years.

On the night I graduated in 1967 I vowed never to walk into Westside High School again. Most of my peers came from wealthy families and we were not rich. I always felt that I was from “the other side of the tracks” and was less popular and less talented than most of my fellow students. Due to the size of my high school, only the most gifted athletes were invited to participate in varsity sports. Guys like me were in the band. I played the tuba. In retrospect, my feelings of inferiority were mostly self-inflicted. Like a lot of teenagers, I lacked perspective.

Mostly, I failed to appreciate the quality of education that I received at Westside High. My history teacher, Paul Andreas, inspired me to love history and appreciate the blessings of being an American. He was a World War II veteran, a common foot soldier, and one of only eight men in his unit to survive the war. He told me about the day he finally returned to the United States. He stood on the deck of the ship in the early morning, waiting to see the statue of liberty in the fog. When he finally disembarked, he walked down the stairs, got down on his knees and “kissed the earth” he was so happy to be back in the United States. I never forgot his words. Paul Andreas wasn’t an average teacher or a good teacher, he was a great teacher.

During my senior year, Judith Hoyt, my English composition instructor, taught me how to write and how to organize a written composition. By the time she was finished with me, college writing courses were a snap. She had the reputation of being a tough instructor with an eye for detail and no tolerance for excuses. I can never repay Judith for what she taught me.

Tony Snyder was my band teacher. He taught me a lot, but most of all I remember his simple decency and honesty. He had plenty of reason to be frustrated with us when we prepared for concerts or marching shows. I could tell then, even as a high school student, that he really wanted us to do well and that he was putting his heart and soul into his job. He taught us how to work together, how to respect each other, and how to strive for perfection. While no one that I know of went on to play musical instruments professionally, the lessons he taught us were a requirement for life’s journey. No one ever spoke unkindly about him; we worshiped that guy.

It was good to visit again with some of my fellow students who roamed the halls of Westside High School from 1963 to 1967. I was amazed at how many of my peers had chosen to become K-12 teachers. Quite a few chose social service professions and there were a couple of lawyers hanging around. Some had gone into business for themselves and had done quite well financially. There was a noticeable lack of people who had chosen engineering or the hard sciences. Unfortunately, 25 of our classmates have passed away. Only one was lost in the Vietnam War, so I assume the others died due to illness or accident. Seven of those 25 people I vividly remember. The girls were sweet and the boys were friendly. Recalling the energy of their souls and the spark of their personalities, I mourn their loss.

The highlight of my reunion came at a dinner held on Saturday evening. Mark Snyder, Tony’s son, was a member of our class. He brought his father to the dinner. Once again I got to enjoy the wit and wisdom of my old band teacher, Tony Snyder. His wife was also there, a stunningly beautiful woman, even well into her eighties. This time I got to hug Tony and to tell him how important his influence had been in my life. As always, he shrugged it off and didn’t presume to take any credit. Secretly I think he knew how grateful I am to have benefited from his tutelage, but he will never know how fundamentally important his example has been to me. Thanks Westside! Thanks, Paul. Thanks, Judith. And thanks, Tony!