Nick Stetich

I hope that my fellow friends and fans of Steve won't mind that I have written an address more directly to him:

Steve,

Happy 30th, my friend! I wish you the biggest of the RBCs on this solemn and joyful occasion!

I remember sometime near high school graduation, when I realized that we were on the brink of adulthood. Perhaps I was encouraged by our brief flirt with Independence on the Washington D.C. choir trip. "We're practically adults." I said, "Just think, we could each be married sometime very soon; any time really! We could start families!" That horizon of endless possiblity was both exhilarating and intimidating. At the time, I wished that I could see 10 years into the future. "I want to see what our families are like. I want to meet your wife," I told you. Perhaps you had some inkling at that time that I had already met her, but I didn't.

I'm so glad that you and Melissa were able to come to Lisa's and my reception, state boundaries notwithstanding, because now you have met my wife. I guess we're even now. Lisa and I have both always appreciated your friendship. We were always pleased when you and Melissa would turn up in whatever random circumstance you might, whether it was at some late, abandoned hour in the Wilkinson Center or ice skating at the Galvinson Center at First Night in Salt Lake City.

I suppose I shall always remember the power naps you and I used to take in Geography in between learning about Urban Heat Island and... uh, whatever else we learned about. (Maybe I shouldn't have taken the naps after all.) Somehow it just seemed impossible to keep my eyes open the whole time in there—after all, five minutes was all I needed. It was, I admit, not as bad as those horrible days when I took full advantage of—well, flaunted would be a much more adequate description—Mr. Richards' offer to let his students sleep whenever they wanted.

How could I ever forget A Capella and Chorale, with all the Torgy-fueled craziness? I remember driving madly with you and Josh along some abandoned highway near Saltair; we had no idea where we were or where we were going. I also remember making a left turn on to a major street in the Capitol Hill neighborhood, when we discovered that somehow my car had somehow ended up on the wrong side of the road. Everyone in the car was thrilled, or at least filled with some kind of overwhelming emotion, as they were screaming quite loudly. Somehow we all always ended up at our various and sundry destinations during our crazy Christmas concert season, but most of the time, I had no idea how I had gotten there.

I still remember the cinnamon and the whipped cream that topped the hot chocolates we received as compensation for our caroling at the Stuffed Bear craft town—clearly I don't remember the name quite as well as the food. I do not think I could forget singing the Star-Spangled Banner a capella at the Jefferson memorial, nor how it caused us to be quite late for our rendezvous at Union Station before returning to our room with Nate Burgess.

It was you who inspired me to get into music at all in the first place. Had you not seen the posters for the A Capella auditions and commented to me that we ought to give it a shot, I suppose I would have just kept taking classes from Mr. Case. It's strange for me to imagine that, but I don't think I would have ever performed a role in an opera, or performed for so many years in choir, had you not spurred me to audition for Mr. Torgerson in the first place!

Thinking back, there is a lot to remember from those days: our various joint forays into music composition for fun and for non-profit, laughing because “there was no Susan, only Zuhl,” creating the Sunflower Surprise at the salad bar in the cafeteria, or eating lunch in the hallway when there was no cafeteria, competing to create the greatest school service announcement poster ever—without encouraging the student body to rip the same poster down, concerning ourselves over the welfare of our friend and his daily hot dog (purchased, of course, at the same location as the sehr groß Keks). Although we both tried to get on as many pages in the yearbook our senior year as we could, you handily beat me.

You were always more than worthy of the title of “best friend.” Though we lived on opposite sides of the city, our friendship was fast. I remember spending many a late evening on the phone talking about the latest assignments or the emotional extremes of high school dating, talking about our frustrations, or our goals, or our philosophies in life. It was good to know you that really cared about my best interest, and it is good to know that you still do.

Well, I guess life goes on, and now we live not just 20 minutes, but more than a thousand miles apart. I'm glad we are still friends. I'm so happy for you and Melissa and Andrew, and I hope that despite economic downturns, crazy politicians, or sleepless nights with crying children, that whatever comes about, life is good for you. But the yearbook is not closed, and “Have a great summer life! Never change!” is not the final word. So don't worry; we'll be in touch!