Thirty-two years ago in the middle of a 44-day transit strike in Philadelphia, I was in desperate need of some good news. I was in love with a girl who treated my heart like a pin cushion. My after-school job in Center City caused me no end of angst. I was reciting too many passages from "The Brothers Karamazov" to be taken seriously in my neighborhood. I was a gloomy misfit.

My only joy in life was a sleek, $126 silver 10-speed racing bike. That was a lot of money to pay for a set of wheels in 1977, but it made the daily commute to school and work -- usually over cobblestone streets piled high with horse manure and broken dreams -- bearable. I was the only person I knew who had to bike uphill in both directions regardless of where I was going.

One April evening after staggering home from the never-ending drama of the 11th grade, I noticed an envelope from the Pennsylvania Governor's School for the Arts. My family was gathered in the kitchen eating chicken pot pie, but no one said anything to me. They knew it was the letter I'd been waiting for -- the letter I had already predicted would change my life.

Without acknowledging them or dignifying their curiosity, I retreated upstairs to my room with the unopened envelope. Slamming the bedroom door for added emphasis, it seemed as good a time as any to start making deals with God.

My hands shook as I opened the envelope. Anticipating the worst, I could already feel the tears welling up behind my eyes. After all, getting into the Governor's School wasn't something that happened to teenagers from the heart of West Philly. What was I trying to prove?

I lost the letter a long time ago, but I'm sure it said something like "congratulations" followed by a brief description of what I could expect during my five weeks as an art major at Bucknell University where that Governor's School would convene.

Even though my bike was stolen the next day, I was still euphoric. I bought a cheaper bike. In the meantime, nothing got me down.

When I moved into my room at Bucknell, it was the happiest day of my life up until that point. I was far from Philly and closer to realizing my potential in the world. The only downside was that I had to do my own laundry.

My roommate was a music major. We had nothing in common, but it was a pleasure living with him. I learned something about discipline, listening to him practice the oboe every night. Another guy used to stand in the courtyard playing Bob Dylan songs on an acoustic guitar. Because I knew nothing about Dylan, I thought they were songs this kid had written. He never disabused me of this notion

I fell in love with three different girls that summer. I think I danced more than I ever had before or since. I even learned how to slow drag the right way on a hot night in Lewisburg. It helped me enter the 12th grade with a lot more confidence.

I was an art major with a minor in creative writing. One of the books we were assigned was "The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plath. It was a scary book, but full of insights into the girls I was meeting at the time. Reading it kindled my interest in writing, but it also cured me of my obsession with death. I stuck to relatively light reading for the next year or two.

The last night at the Governor's School felt like a wake. We had one last class dance that night and cried in each other's arms. We swore we'd stay in touch forever. I regularly wrote to a half-dozen of the nearly 300 people I met that summer until the early 1980s, when college life and a new set of friends put an end to that beautiful dream. Still, I'd like to think we could recreate those feelings at some future reunion.

I found my old Governor's School photo album the other day and the memories came flooding back -- along with anger.

Gov. Ed Rendell eliminated the $3.2 million budget for the Governor's Schools of Excellence earlier this year, citing budget priorities. Five of the schools (arts, agricultural sciences, international studies, sciences and teaching), have been canceled; others (global entrepreneurship, health careers, computing) will be transformed into programs that charge thousands in tuition.

As a result, hundreds of academically and artistically talented students won't get a letter like I did 32 years ago this month, inviting me to take an incredible adventure.

Thanks for closing the door to so many interesting possibilities, Gov. Rendell.