Nothing had changed on this go around. You write a letter that either vents about something or refutes some asshole. Nine chances out of ten, the editors shitcan it anyway. It doesn't matter, since just writing it makes you feel better anyway, and gives you a reason to turn to the Letters page first.
In this case, the Baltimore Sun had written an article about the cost of maintenance on the Bay Bridge. Some jackass had written saying that the cost was excessive and that taxpayer money shouldn't be spent maintaining a bridge that was incorrectly and incompetently built to begin with, and that the contractors should be sued. I had responded with an even longer piece that countered that the cost was not excessive, that it was well within the expected costs forecast originally, and that maintenance needed to be performed on all equipment. My response got picked up and published on the op-ed page as a guest editorial, which surprised the hell out of me. My note sparked a number of responses, both pro and con, which was probably why they published it in the first place.
One of those responses turned out to be very interesting. A professor of civil engineering at UMBC wrote back with a lengthy dissertation on infrastructure maintenance that was way too long and technical for the Sun to publish, but they sent it to me along with a personal note. Maybe I wanted to talk to this guy. I read through his stuff and quickly jotted a note back to him, letting him know I had received his information from the Sun, but that they didn't plan to publish it. I agreed with much of what he was saying, and thanked him for the interest.
What happened next surprised me. I received a second note, sent directly to me this time, with about a two inch thick stack of scientific papers, some by him, and some by others, on the effects of deteriorating infrastructure and the costs of repair. It was actually rather interesting. I spent the better part of an afternoon at the office working my way through the papers, and then figured out his phone number over at the college. Then I called him and thanked him, and he invited me to a symposium he was a part of on Thursday evening, on Infrastructure Requirements and Maintenance.
And that was how I met Professor Harold Johnson. Wednesday night I told Marilyn I would probably be late coming home on Thursday, and that I would probably be eating in town. When she asked why, I explained about the papers I had gotten. "Going back to being a scientist?", she teased.
I put on my best haughty demeanor, and answered, "I'll have you know I've always been a scientist, and you lesser breeds should recognize my inherent superiority!"
"Oh, really? Maybe such a superior person should sleep in the library tonight, so that the ideas in those books can seep in."
I came around the kitchen island and hugged her shoulder. "No, I think that if I sleep with you, maybe my superior ideas and thoughts could seep into you!"
"With an attitude like that, nothing else is going to be seeping in!", she replied.
"Hmmm ... Maybe I could come up with a special sleep teaching technique." We kept teasing back and forth until after dinner. Later that night Marilyn allowed me to sleep in our bed, and I worked on that special technique with her.
UMBC, the University of Maryland - Baltimore County, is in Arbutus, down on the southwestern side of Baltimore. It is right next door to Catonsville Community College, otherwise known to us locals as either USC, the University of Southern Catonsville, or UCLA, University of Catonsville, Left at Arbutus. Depending on the time of day, it is about 40 minutes from Hereford. Run down to the Beltway and then turn right, and travel around the city. The symposium was at 7:00 PM, so I drove down to Towson, had some dinner in town, and then drove down to Arbutus.
The symposium was held in a lecture hall in the Engineering Building. I parked in a lot to the west of the building and went in. Traffic had been heavy on the Beltway, so I got there about fifteen minutes late. I slipped in a door in the back of the room and sat in one of the rear seats. The symposium had professors of engineering and economics and political science, and the audience was composed of what looked like grad students for the various professors. No surprise there. I must have been the only member of the general public to attend, and I wouldn't have been there if I hadn't been specifically invited.
Nothing new was discussed, although I generally found it interesting. Most of the discussion was about roads and bridges, and how the nation's infrastructure was deteriorating. This was pretty much true at the time, and was only going to get worse. By the time of the Great Recession, vast areas of the country were being left to rot without any maintenance at all. If a bridge collapsed, it was left that way, and the residents were shit out of luck. Potholes became the new roadways. Putting up traffic cones was cheaper than replacing guardrails when somebody went off the road. Nobody at the symposium came up with any ways to stop the problem, and at the end the grad students left, their mandatory attendance duly noted.
It was just shy of 9:00 when the meeting broke up, and I got out of my chair and walked down the aisle to the front of the lecture hall. Dr. Johnson was the resident expert on bridges and roads. I stepped over the low railing around the stage area and went up to him. "Professor Johnson?"
He looked up at me. "Yes? Can I help you?"
I smiled and put my hand out. "Carl Buckman, Doctor. You invited me to the symposium, remember?"
"Oh, yes, thank you for coming. It's nice when we can get somebody other than just us academics to one of these things."
"I quite agree. I remember those days myself."
"Oh?", he asked.
I handed him one of my business cards with the PhD behind my name. "Yes, a few years ago I was a grad student myself."
His eyebrows raised slightly. "Where did you go to school?"
"Rensselaer. I got a doctorate in applied mathematics about ten years ago. It seems like another lifetime."
"I know RPI. I got my bachelors at Clarkson."
"Do you still follow hockey?", I asked. Clarkson-RPI had been a major Division I rivalry for years.
He grinned. "Not for many years. It was always good for a date, though." I smiled and nodded along with him. "I should have known by your response to that idiot letter to the editor you had a mathematical background. I just wish more people cared about these things. Nothing gets done until something terrible happens."
"It's the nature of the beast, Professor. When times are good we don't want to spend the money. When times are bad we don't have the money to spend. Unless you've figured out a way to re-engineer humans, nothing happens unless you make it happen.", I answered. I glanced at my watch. We were the last ones in the lecture hall, and it was after 9:00. "I suppose we need to leave. It looks like they are about to lock us in for the night."
"I wish we could talk longer."
I was on the verge of saying goodbye, but for some reason I postponed it a bit. "I could do with a late bite to eat. How about you, Professor? Anywhere nearby we can grab a cup of coffee or something?"
He looked a little startled at that. "Not really sure. I think most of the local diners are closed. We might find a sandwich shop or something. There's a pretty nice place down South Rolling Road on Frederick, Russel's, but it might be pricey for a cup of coffee."