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Coming down the water, with a wide-open mouth of vibrating teeth, the milfoil harvester is a light blue paddle-wheeled contraption worthy of a Dr. Seuss rhyme. Or maybe it’s something Jules Verne would have moored at his lake cabin.

The combine-like machine is a common sight on Twin Cities lakes, ever since the early 1990s when the Eurasian water milfoil infestation really took off. The weed crowds out native plants, which in turn hurts the fish populations that feed on those plants. Mostly, though, it was the outcry from a repelled public that spurred local anti-milfoil efforts. Milfoil is a nuisance to boaters and anglers, and a possible hazard to swimmers, who get tangled up in its creepy tendrils. And it grows like crazy—up to a foot a week. This year seems particularly bad, and there are several theories why. For example, the lack of snow last winter may have allowed more light to reach the plants beneath the lake ice, extending the growing season.

In Minneapolis, between Memorial Day and Labor Day a crew with two harvesters and two trucks rotate between city lakes. They remove 20 tons of weeds each day, focusing on priority sites like swimming areas. Where does it all end up? At a compost site at Fort Snelling State Park. The machines, which are made in Wisconsin, are on the lakes for 6-10 hours each day, six days a week. They make multiple passes over the same areas because the paddle wheels blow down the weeds as the harvester approaches, but then the weeds straighten back up. “It’s like trying to mow your lawn blindfolded,” one driver told me.

On a sunny morning a few days later, crewmember Tom Tollefson took The Rake for a ride on Cedar Lake. Tom allowed me to sit briefly at the controls, and I couldn’t resist gunning it. The harvesters are surprisingly fast. Tollefson took over and dropped the front shovel into the water. The blades on the business end of the shovel are like a giant hair clipper, and they cut the weeds off 3 to 4 feet below the surface. Then a series of conveyor belts ratchet the weeds up the shovel and to the back of the boat. The milfoil comes out of the water in tangled mats, and it smells faintly of fish and chlorine. No one has found a good use for harvested milfoil. Several years ago, a curious park employee tried to get a neighbor—a farmer—to feed the weed to his cows. But the man showed him a watering pond that had already been infested with milfoil. Even with their wide-ranging herbivorous appetite and two stomachs, the cows fastidiously avoided it.

Fill a public swimming pool with kids on any of the scorching days to come, and sooner or later someone’s going to shout, “Marco!” Several others will shout, “Polo!” and in the summer heat, this vexing water game is reborn.

The person shouting “Marco” is “it,” and must tag one of the “Polos.” It’s tricky because the “Marco” has to perform this task in water, without the benefit of eyesight. While they are usually trusted to keep their eyes shut, “Marcos” have been known to cheat.

Like building meth labs and bonsai gardening, instructions for this simple activity have proliferated online. Since the game consists mostly of delivering misleading information over a distance to the uninformed, it can easily be taken for a grim parable of the world wide web. Like everything else on the net, it now spreads unchecked across the heartland. At the St. Louis Park Aquatic Park some of the game’s admitted participants are also pool employees.

“I liked that game,” admitted ticket-taker Katie Johnson one recent afternoon. She stressed the past tense. Her companion, Jessie Lee, added that at their age (around 15) priorities have shifted too far guyward to get into the spirit. Even so, kids old enough to drive have owned up to The Rake that they still get a kick out of blind water tag.

Lifeguards have also taken notice of the game, though they say it is easier to hear it than to see it. While none would consent to playing the game while on duty—indeed, they preferred not even to talk about it while working—they have one thing in common with those who do: They have no idea what the game has to do with the 13th century explorer from Venice for whom the game is named. Venice is, of course, full of water. And Marco Polo sought the unknown. But to a number, both players and observers of the game find no connection to the father of the Eurasian spice trade. “I have no idea,” is the mantra on this topic, though a few are willing to ruminate on the matter.

“He was a guy who went to China,” said Jessie Lee, betting on historical fact. During the five o’clock safety break during which the pool is emptied of swimmers and checked for victims, one lifeguard warmed to the topic. “Maybe,” she said, “he was blind.”

We battled it out for 17 hours at a teardrop-shaped table in a dimly lit conference room in Eagan. The three day seminar was called “Wings,” the hosts were employees of Northwest Airlines, the goal was to help students overcome their fear of flying. They came from all over—Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, and a few coastal states. Every one of the 10 participants had flown before, and some flew all the time. One woman had even boarded a plane in Tacoma, Washington, to come to the class. Yet each of the six women and four men (standard for this bimonthly class, whose female-to-male ratio is usually about 60:40, facilitator and retired captain Tom Roberts informed me) experiences panic attacks, stress, and anxiety prior to air travel and often throughout the flight.

This is not an uncommon fear, according to resident psychologist Ruth Markowitz. At the Friday evening meet-and-greet, Markowitz said that 1 in 6 people feels anxious when flying. These are bright, creative people who let their imaginations get the better of them and thus spend their time at 35,000 feet expecting the worst, hands clenched to the armrests instead of cocking their heads into the aisle hoping to get a glimpse of the meal cart.

Of course, it’s an irrational fear, since flying is—statistically speaking—safer than driving, dancing outside in a thunderstorm, and eating fast food. Yet on Saturday afternoon, after Roberts’ two hour presentation detailing the meticulous safety measures, flight techniques, and crew training airlines use to ensure the utmost quality, and after inspecting both the cockpit and the exterior of a DC-9 grounded in the airline’s hangar, the class was still collectively showing the tight face of stress. Even my usually composed mind was beginning to wonder if, ridiculous as it seems, these people know something I don’t.

By the time Sunday morning arrived, the class had been through hours of deep breathing, visualization, and the safety briefing. We’d sat on an airplane and in a flight simulator. It was now time to face the fear.

Our flight to Chicago’s O’Hare airport left at 9 a.m. One man, a quiet Iowan who hadn’t flown in 15 years and was hoping to take his wife on the honeymoon she’d never had, called it quits before the security check. He promised to return in September and take advantage of the second-time free policy (a nice option on a $495 tuition). We met the captain at the gate and pre-boarded. Normally, of course, pre-boarding is for those challenged by infirmity or infant, but in our case it was to get everyone on the plane with plenty of time to get comfortable. Ours was a regularly scheduled flight, but it was empty—a 110-passenger DC-9 with 45 seats booked. Half the seats were reserved for the class. No general announcements were made, so the dignity of the students was spared in case there were any jaded, professional travelers present on the flight. While Markowitz calmed one man, an airline mechanic who begged to disembark, Roberts talked the tense but outwardly calm group through the pre-flight noises and offered reassurances and kind words. Seated a row ahead, smiling what I hoped was a compassionate smile, I couldn’t help thinking about that absolutely miniscule, not-gonna-happen risk and the horrible ironic potential of this flight. Fifty minutes and one beverage service later, when NWA Flight 126 touched down smoothly and safely and nine fearful flyers celebrated, I too was relieved.

In the terminal, the flyers checked in with each other. Not everyone thought it had gone as well as they hoped, but everyone had successfully utilized some or all of the half-dozen techniques Markowitz had recommended for a more relaxed experience. The flight back to the Twin Cities, with the same plane and its familiar noises, was relatively uneventful. Victory, in this case a broad and sweeping term, was declared.

We are just outside Willmar when Mark begins to explain how he and his family eat and sleep for free at Indian casinos. “Hey, we look like Indians. I tell the manager we’re Sioux, and if he doesn’t ask questions, we’ll probably get suites and buffet coupons.” Mark’s skin is the color of a very well-tanned Caucasian, and his hair is ink black. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine that he is, in fact, a Native American.

But Mark is an American Roma. Better known around the world as a Gypsy—a term which offends many Roma, but not Mark. He is one of nearly a million American Gypsies descended from Eastern European and Turkish clans. Though assimilation has become common, many Gypsies still live in a highly secretive, mobile world where false identities are standard, cash is preferred, and photographs are strictly taboo. Mark’s real name—in particular, his clan name—is a well-guarded secret.

Today I am riding in Mark’s white Chevy Suburban. In the back seat is his American Gypsy wife, and surrounding her are three of their seven children, ages 6, 9, and 11. The mood is warm and welcoming. Though allowing outsiders (much less writers) into this world is considered a serious cultural breach, Mark is proud to show off a small part of his unique lifestyle. Mark says he married his wife when he was 14 and she was 16—about average for an arranged Gypsy marriage. The negotiated dowry was $20,000—paid by the bride’s father. “I’m hoping my kids work out a little cheaper,” Mark says. He has three daughters.

We are on our way to a machine shop where Mark will buy nearly a ton of scrap aluminum. Once the metal is loaded into the Suburban’s trailer, Mark drives it to a Minneapolis scrap yard. For nearly half the year—two to three months of which are spent in Minnesota—this is how Mark supports his family. He’s not alone. According to Mark, there are probably 5,000 “scrap Gypsies” roaming America during the summer months.

Countless machine shops across Minnesota deal with these nomads on a regular basis, though often they don’t know it. “They wouldn’t look at us if they knew we were Gypsies. So around here we tell them we’re Indians. Down south we’re Mexicans.” Mark spends his winters outside Wichita, Kansas, where he owns a house. Nevertheless, the road is Mark’s workplace, and even during the winter months he spends weeks driving through Texas and Oklahoma in search of scrap metal. More often than not, his children accompany him, learning the intricacies of the scrap business along the way. It’s important to Mark because like most Gypsy children they won’t complete more than a few years of school. And like most American Gypsies—including Mark and his wife—they cannot read or write. It’s a serious problem in the Gypsy community, but one that is rarely addressed for fear that further assimilation will devastate the private Gypsy culture. Nevertheless what’s lacking in literacy is often balanced by an uncanny ability with numbers—particularly when those numbers are attached to dollars.

We arrive at the machine shop and Mark asks me to stay in the truck. He and one of his kids approach the loading dock where an official-looking man in a blue denim jumpsuit leads them into the building. After 10 minutes a forklift arrives with several pallets of aluminum. A moment later Mark reemerges, and he’s in a hurry to leave. “We got too good a price.”

Mark tells me that Minnesota and the Dakotas are good territory for Gypsies. “People don’t give us too much trouble. If it weren’t for the winters, we might even move up here.” He also assures me that Minneapolis scrap yards understand the peculiar needs of a mobile, anonymous businessman with no forwarding address.

When he drops me at my car, Nick gives me a bolo tie with a turquoise clip. He tells me that it’s the same tie he gives to machine-shop foremen who need convincing that he’s an Indian. “Just make sure you write how we’re all good Indians.” He hands me the address of the long-term residence motel he and his family are using as a base while they work Minnesota. I’m invited for dinner. It’s in the outer ring suburbs. “That’s where all the nice Minnesota families live, right?”

Alas: the pitter-pat of shuffling feet on the stair that Martha Stewart hears each day when she awakes is not the stirring of guests invited for a festive country weekend; it’s the SEC closing in. Last month ImClone boss and “family friend” Sam Waksal (her daughter’s boyfriend, later her own) took his perp walk for the cameras on insider trading charges. A few days later the Wall Street Journal reported that the Feds had turned one of Stewart’s own pals, a woman who flew to Mexico with Martha on Stewart’s private jet the day her ImClone sale was executed.

Delicious, isn’t it? Martha summed up better than anyone the consumption side of the long 90s boom. And despite economically polarized times she figured out how to play both ends of the street. To the masses who bought up her branded Kmart merchandise, she peddled a vain and costly domestic fantasy; to the moneyed would-be gentry she offered a practical primer on the good life. It proved so lucrative in part because it tapped a market-driven article of faith rigorously foisted on fortunates and unfortunates alike in the 80s and 90s: There really is nothing you can’t buy if you’ve got the money—style, grace, dignity, domestic tranquility, you name it. At bottom, like all timeless hucksters, she was selling a sense of personal completeness and substance.

Turns out it was all pretend, right down to the paper fortune Stewart amassed during her day in the sun. So far her stock in her own company has dropped over $300 million in value, and she may be facing time in one of those minimum-security facilities whose décor she could do so much to enliven. All this over a smarmy little insider transaction that saved her about $200,000 in stock losses. If you aren’t gratified by what’s become of Martha Stewart, you just aren’t paying attention.

Don’t bet she’ll scrape by on the strength of her money and clout. If the order of the day is a few show trials to quiet public outrage, what prosecution could possibly be showier than Martha’s? One can already imagine the indictment, the subsequent death-plunge of MSO stock, even the eventual plea agreement, filed on the finest linen stationery with inlaid flowers pressed by Martha herself.

AFTER LAST MONTH’S column on Paul Wellstone’s silence concerning the business scandals, I got a testy email from a Wellstone staffer, larded with press release attachments that demonstrated the senator’s fierce and fearless leadership. Wellstone has spoken against corporate abuses on the Senate floor, I was informed, not once but twice—and, more impressive still, he spoke forcefully each time.

Naturally I felt mortified at my own hubris. Who was I to criticize Wellstone’s leadership just because I hadn’t heard a peep about it myself? Had I scoured the full menu of his press releases? Had I pored over member comments on the Senate floor? No. But in my own paltry way I did try. I looked at various news archives and Wellstone’s own Senate website. Before its content was frozen by election rules round about early July, it contained no word about corporate accountability that I could find, not even one of the press releases—each surely more forceful than the last!—that are the sine qua non of his leadership. All I can say is that I’m sorry, Paul, and in the future I’ll bear in mind that the mere fact of being invisible doesn’t make you any less a leader.

Now, in mid-August, Wellstone’s campaign website is screaming boardroom larceny front and center. Lovely. Better late than never, and better a little than nothing at all: That’s the central refrain of Wellstone’s Senate career and the only credible slogan on behalf of his re-election campaign. I’ll still vote for him if I vote at all, but I won’t venture out just to pull the lever for Paul. And in that I doubt I’m alone.

The other day I spoke with Bill Hillsman, the political ad consultant who played a vital role in electing Wellstone the first time. “I was thinking about some of the ads we just murdered Boschwitz with in 1990,” Hillsman smiled ruefully, “the print ads where we talked about his being in the Senate for 12 years and never getting anything done. And I thought to myself, good Lord, what would happen if someone did that same ad now with respect to Wellstone’s record? It would probably be no better, maybe in some cases worse.”

Steve Perry is a contributing editor to The Rake. He can be reached at steve@rakemag.com.

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Tyler Ellwood is a sales executive for WorldCom. He works at the company’s Golden Valley offices. A few weeks ago, he was ready to go on a fishing trip to the Boundary Waters with his father and a couple friends. As they drove up to Ely in a white minivan, he frequently checked his voice mail messages. “A big truck just pulled up in front of headquarters,” he said. “It’s full of empty boxes.” The company had just announced its intention to layoff 17,000 employees. Since he is in sales, he felt confident that his position would be spared. But he was prepared for the worst.

In any case, Ellwood wouldn’t know whether he had a job until he returned from the Boundary Waters. He was concerned—but not so concerned that he couldn’t tolerate the spotty cell-phone coverage he was getting as they made their way through Cloquet. He said his goodbyes to his wife and his 1-year-old daughter, looking forward to four days in the wilderness. “I’m going to turn off now, Sweetie, and save my battery,” he said.

When they got to Lake One at the end of Highway 169 (“If you go the wrong way, the other end is in Texas,” said the outfitter dryly), Ellwood was disheartened by the flies. As it turned out, it was a terrible year for tent caterpillars—also known as army worms—and, ecosystems being what they are, that meant it was a terrible year for “friendly flies,” big black insects that don’t bite. But they swarm all exposed flesh.

The lakes out of Ely were doing a brisk business in humans too. Ellwood spent most of the first two days looking for campsites that weren’t already occupied, and it became clear that most parties were settled in for indefinite stays. His group grew disgusted with the situation, and they were forced to camp illegally on an island with no latrine or fire grate. Although Ellwood caught a nice Northern the first morning, he released it. It was the only fish he caught that might have made a meal. And there was no relief from the flies.

One might have escaped them in a good tent. Ellwood brought along a nifty one-man tent with good walls and reliable netting. “Nothing personal,” he told his dad, who’d brought a two-man tent. “This is new and I haven’t slept in it yet.” But the unusual heat, reaching high into the 90s, made it unbearable to be inside a tent of any size. Soon it became clear that the campers’ only real option was to jump in the lake, and spend most of the day floating in their life preservers where the heat and the flies were kept at bay. “This kinda sucks,” said Ellwood. Out of the water, it was unpleasant. Even so, no one was eager to throw in the towel and cut the trip short. Aside from the ready availability of cold beer and cheeseburgers, the prospect of going back to civilization still didn’t seem very appetizing.

Chicago has long been the unofficial capital of modern architecture in the U.S. But the Twin Cities certainly have opportunities to compete in the noblest art. With high-profile expansions and demolitions underway (the hammer always comes with a claw), there’s been a small parade of internationally known architects arriving here with plans tubed underarm. It’s a fine thing to live in a city where there is sufficient vanity and money to indulge in an ambitious new Guthrie Theater, an expanded Walker Art Center, a face-lift for the Children’s Theater, an augmentation for the M.I.A., and a reconceived public library.

Unfortunately for these kinds of projects in this part of the world, it’s often an exercise in dilettantism. When steering committees propose new buildings, the same short list of trendy architects ends up on the back of the envelope. For a while there, it seemed as if Frank Gehry was the golden goose, to the point where his grocery lists were winning local admiration. Let’s remember I.M. Pei too, who essentially pasted a “kick me” sign on an entire city’s rear-end with that cheap tiara atop the U.S. Bank building. (One can only hope that the same people who removed the original Guthrie’s pretentious façade are looking up in the sky with wrecking balls in their eyes. If we’ve learned anything here it’s that architecture is emphatically not a permanent art form. Architecture in the Twin Cities is slightly less archival than a typical black and white photograph.) Now, of course, Michael Graves is in fashion. Ephemeral times call for finite artists. There is nothing inherently wrong with an architect who spends much of his time designing can openers and toilet plungers.

Even when they reach for real historical continuity and solidity, city planners manage to make decisions that are as predictable as they are dubious. Consider the bloated and precious “Frank Lloyd Wright” bridge, recently finished on Third Avenue over I-94. Given the Twin Cities’ tradition of vainglorious bridge-building, it came as no surprise that city guardians wanted to build something special for the “Avenue of the Arts” initiative. (If the lakes of Minneapolis ever revert to swampland, we could justly change our epithet to “the City of Bridges.”) But lots of eyebrows went up when Minneapolis announced that it was commissioning the first Frank Lloyd Wright bridge ever to be built. Eye brows twisted further when Minneapolis revealed that this would actually be a Wright-inspired bridge. Now that it’s done, Minneapolis realizes that no Wright bridge has ever been built for the simple reason that Wright’s bridge designs are, by and large, some of the ugliest, uninspired drawings the man ever put on paper.

Our impulse to make inspired buildings and bridges is admirable. But we are plagued by our own limitations. When it comes to public building projects, no one seems capable of thinking past a few one-syllable surnames. Most of the public is well aware of Frank Lloyd Wright, and vaguely conscious of his importance in the canon of middle-American architecture. Some have actually made the effort to seek out what remains of his overrated portfolio—such as the wholly unremarkable gas station in Cloquet, which is unique in the same way as the new Third Avenue Bridge; its unsightliness is rare indeed.

It’s one thing to commission a world-class architect, and quite another to commission a world-class building. But to reanimate the dead is the most unnatural and unnecessary trick of all.

Getting Into Harvard
What does it take these days?

Will graduating at the top of the class from a good Twin Cities private school get your child into Harvard? No, but it won’t necessarily hurt. According to the U.S. News and World Report compilation of college admissions information for 2001, 34 percent of the students admitted to Harvard College came from private high schools. “We don’t hold private schools against anybody,” says Marlyn McGrath Lewis, Director of Admissions of Harvard College, with a touch of irony. “We don’t admit high schools. We admit students.” By the U.S. News measurement, Harvard is the toughest college to get into in the country. When you look beyond the fact that Harvard admitted only 10 percent of its applicants last year to some of the details behind the numbers, the task of getting into Harvard is even more daunting.
Lewis says that, of the more than 19,000 applicants for the 1,650 places in the freshman class, 87 percent were “qualified to do [Harvard] work with a measure of grace.” Of those, 347 applicants had perfect 1600 SAT scores. Fewer than half of those were admitted. Nearly 3,000 of the applicants had ranked first in their high school class. Only 20 percent of those were admitted.
So, what does get you into Harvard?
It’s not all academic.

About 300 students were admitted on the basis of their scholarship as reviewed by Harvard faculty in their field. But, for most applicants, the high school record serves only as a guideline. The objective tests, such as the SAT exams, provide some means of comparison of applicants, and some means of gauging “what the grades at the school mean.” But again, Lewis doesn’t put much weight on high school preparation. “We try not to reward over-preparation. For example, we can teach people to write, so we’re not necessarily disinclined to take someone from a school where the literary education isn’t as good.” Lewis said they look for the “DE”—the distinguishing excellence. “We look for something that will let us choose them over someone else. Are they a musician, a hockey player, or did they work 40 hours a week to help support their family?”

Does that have anything to do with the applicant’s high school? No and yes. “We ask what they have done with the opportunities they have had. If the school has minimal academics, we ask where the student spent his time. We don’t necessarily value a school that determines what you do 18 hours a day,” she said.

“There is no sure route to the best colleges, but as a general rule, put [your student] in a school where he is comfortable enough to develop his talent. Try to send your kid to a place that has intellectual values that you value. If a high school has the right culture, it will encourage the student to read thoughtfully. Choose an environment like that—that knows and loves every kid, if you have a choice. If you can choose a school where talents are honored and developed, do it. Most aren’t that lucky.”

At schools like Harvard, she added, “It is never just the point of admissions to have students who can get As here. We will take some with more visible flaws. For us it’s a game of futures. We place bets on people who will make a significant contribution to society after graduation.”

NEXT: The Same Sex Option

As clichéd as the word “community” has become at Breck, I still have to admit that it’s accurate.

There is a degree of trust and mutual respect among students that separates Breck from larger schools where you’re lucky if you’re able to recognize everyone in your class let alone name them. The comfortable environment makes it much easier to be an individual. And because the trusting atmosphere originates in the classroom, those who succeed academically are as accepted and admired as those who excel in athletics.

I would always laugh when I walked into the library to find half a dozen students, jocks, thespians, math nerds, and student council members, arguing over the best way to solve a physics problem. “No, damn it, you have the magnetic field rotating the wrong direction about the electric current,” I’d hear someone scream jokingly.

More often than not, the person at the center of the table madly scribbling the answer was a guy named Jonathan. In addition to being the biggest geek ever to wield a TI-89 scientific graphing calculator, Jonathan was the most respected kid in the school.

My proudest moment in the seven years I spent at Breck was when Jonathan was elected homecoming king. We could have voted for the leading scorer on the hockey team or the class president, but we chose Jonathan because we admired him for his intelligence and friendliness.

The bonds among students were equaled by the strong relationships between students and the faculty. Most teachers’ doors were always open and many students socialized with teachers when class wasn’t in session. One of the most popular senior hangouts was the office of the Dean of Students. With several cushioned chairs and a basketball hoop, Mr. Bergene’s office was always open to students who wanted to lounge around or play a game of hall-hockey with one of his many confiscated hockey sticks. The chess board in the upper-school office always had a crowd around it, too. Dozens gathered to see Mr. Anderson mercilessly checkmate anyone who dared challenge him.

But the thing I enjoyed the most during my time at Breck was the camaraderie and spirit of the students. Breck has had a surprising amount of athletic success for its small student body. And rarely is there a sporting event without several dozen rowdy fans. The biggest athletic event of the year is always the hockey game between our noble Mustangs and the despised Blake Bears. Last year, my friend Jon and I, the self-appointed tailgating superfans, set up a pre-game fiesta in the parking lot of Blake’s ice arena. More than a third of the school stood in the bitter cold blasting music from car stereos and eating burgers hot off the grill. And when our team arrived, we followed them into the arena with drums, trombones, trumpets, kazoos, and whistles. We outnumbered the home crowd by a large margin. As the game ended, the Mustangs scored their sixth goal while we sang the Alma Mater.

The camaraderie at Breck extended beyond athletics, though. On our traditional senior skip day, I hosted the entire class at my house for breakfast. Jon and I organized 10 cooks to turn out pancakes, waffles, eggs, bacon, sausage, and hash browns for 80 people. We spent the rest of the day together picnicking on Lake Calhoun before returning to school in the afternoon to watch a lacrosse match. As a gift to the seniors, the freshman class paid for the entire day out of their class fund.

We were unified as a school and as a class, but we also celebrated individual victories. When Mike, the hardest working student in my class, was finally accepted to Notre Dame after being put on the waiting list, I remember several students being more excited for Mike than they were about getting into college themselves.

It was especially difficult leaving a place like Breck where many of the graduates had seen each other every day for as many as 15 years. I feel the growing tension in my classmates’ minds as we spread apart in anticipation of a new life. But having finally become adults, there is a sense of accomplishment that makes us closer now than we’ve ever been. The fellowship formed in our years at Breck will not be easily replaced or forgotten.

Smart people send their kids to private schools, right? Maybe not. Even as vouchers become a reality, and public school budgets get bodyslammed, your options may be growing.

I am the product of a private high school. Not one of the toney schools that serve as the Ivy League of the Twin Cities, but what passed for one in Omaha-the Jesuit school.

There was no pretense of Christian humility when it came to Creighton Prep. We were the best at everything from the math and Latin contests to the four state sport championships we won my senior year. Top performance was encouraged and expected in all areas. The culture of the student body, at least in the classes I was in, was to respect the guys who got great grades as much as the guys who hit home runs. Often they were the same guys.

The teachers, from the beginning of freshman year, treated us like men. (There were no girls.) If you got good grades on the tests, you didn’t have to turn in, or even do, your rote homework. For sophomore American History we had to read an extra book of our own choosing each quarter and make an oral book report to the teacher after school. One time I was surprised that the only question I got on the book was, “Did you read it Mr. Bartel?” I answered truthfully, “Yes.” “That’s good enough for me,” said Father O’Leary.

We had lots of homework, and though we rarely had to turn in pages of math or physics problems or Latin conjugations, we were tested frequently on whether or not we were keeping up. And for those who weren’t, the punishment was clear. You would have to start doing all those problems again.

The English curriculum in particular was extraordinarily rigorous and holistic. Freshman English was concerned mostly with how to read literature. We read classic short stories, some poetry and a few short novels, but concentrated on learning how to think about them. We learned new words such as denouement and catharsis. We learned to distinguish climax from conclusion and to recognize irony. Transferred epithets did not trouble us. Onomatopoeia and synecdoche were our friends. Sophomore year started with creation stories from various cultures including Babylonian, East Indian, Native American, and Hebrew, and progressed through the Oedipus plays, Arthurian legend, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Dickens. Junior year we got Swift, the Book of Job, Hawthorne, Melville, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and Salinger. Senior year started with James Joyce and then explained him by reading Homer, Virgil, Beowulf, the Niebelungenlied, and the Song of Roland. And for three years, we wrote an English paper every week.

My friends who went to public school didn’t do this. Their math curriculum was more advanced than ours, but while we took history, they had social studies. While we took Latin and another language for four years, many of them didn’t take language at all. What did all that mean? Less than I thought at the time. Because the public schools, at least the ones I knew, taught many of the same books, grouped students by ability levels, and sent their best grads to the top colleges. Is that as true today? Perhaps. But the indications are that many public schools are only now getting back to a more rigorous education after a long experiment with something unrecognizable to many of us.

Research assistance by Matt Bartel