My friend Harry would have been 71 today. He was a brilliant man with the sort of kind, loving, generous spirit that one is fortunate to encounter once in a lifetime. He grew up in India, tenth child and only boy. His father was a captain in the English army and his mother was a Proper English Lady. He grew up a kind of wild child, running the jungles with his buddies, until age of eleven, when they finally ran him down and made him go to school. In the next six years he did enough schoolwork to get himself admitted to Cambridge, from which he was graduated with a bachelor's degree in electrical engineering. He managed, in the next 40 years, to have a career that consisted of, among other things, designing switches for the London subway system and small appliances for General electric, and neon animations. He was also a skilled portait painter. In my life, he has been the one True Intellectual with whom I could exchange ideas and get into heated discussions without affecting one jot the affection we felt for each other. During the 90s he developed circulatory problems and wound up having his aorta replaced with a dacron graft, an operation that took almost 20 hours. A couple of years later on a flight to New Zealand to visit his nephew, the circulation collapsed in his left leg and twelve hours later it was amputated by inept Kiwi doctors. It took another two years to get all the problems with the wound sorted out, during which he decided to go back to England so their medical system could take care of him. The day he left we hugged and cried all over each other at Charlotte Douglas Airport, both convinced that we'd never see each other again. Harry wound up living in Bath, where his daughter lives. The British doctors told him that the best care for his wound would be in Rock Hill, SC, which is about a twenty minute drive from where I was living in Charlotte. So after having a big laugh celebrating the irony of it all, he wound up back with me for a while. After a brief stay in the hospital, he came back to Charlotte for a few months so the doctors could keep up with his progress. His wound was much improved, to the point where life was back to near normal for him, so he went back to Olde Blightey, and was able to make the trip back and forth over the Atlantic for a couple of visits to his beloved Las Vegas where he won thousands of dollars playing the nickel slots, of all things. One week in September 2003 I got an email from Harry mentioning how excited he was to be going, around his birthday in November, to the opera at the newly refurbished Royal Albert Hall. His other daughter was going to fly over from Toronto and they were going to go together. The following sunday I got an email from his daughter in Somerset saying that he had been admitted to hospital with headaches and that she would keep me posted. Monday I got word that he has been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and had slipped into a coma. Thursday came the email that he'd died. I miss him every day, especially on his birthday, because we used to celebrate it together every year. The man knew how to party. Today, though, rather than grieving, I'm mostly walking on air. Another good friend of mine, a member of this board, remembered that it was Harry's birthday, and made a nice gift to National Brain Tumor Foundation in memory of Harry on his birthday. I couldn't think of a nicer way to commemorate the life of this wonderful man and at the same time show a prodigious amount of love for me. I love you back, my friend. Your place in my heart is there forever. This is the best day of my life, and all I've done so far is wake up, read my emails, and write this post. This day has promise.