I lost a disk full of essays when I got my new computer early in the decade, and I'm just getting around to typing them into my permanent files. Some are not so bad.
Spring
April 1996
Spring begins at sea level and moves upward about eleven miles a day, according to scientists who have studied the phenomenon. It is a transition time when the natural life cycle begins again, when I watch a bee exploring the throat of a daffodil and catch my breath in astonishment at how and why this happens, and who makes it happen. Spring brings a sense of freedom, a feeling of newness, an urge to be creative.
One morning in the spring I was sixteen years old, I sat in my room watching the sweet Oregon rain fall on the riot of irises outside my window, exploring the Roget’s Thesaurus my parents had given me for my birthday that winter, and decided that I would be a writer.
This spring, one of my creations, a play, is being brought to life on stage by a group of talented people who are giving me the priceless gift of their time to do for me what I can’t do for myself. Theater has been in my blood since the spring of my senior year in high school when I auditioned for a part in “The Diary of Anne Frank.” Although I didn’t get the part, I was assigned to the costume crew, which took me backstage where, for the first time, I inhaled the instantly addictive and nearly palpable creative energy in the air.
As a college student, my best learning moments, some even life changing, came when I was involved in plays. I’ll never forget the only applause I ever received as an actress – in my acting class, playing Amanda in a scene from The Glass Menagerie. My interests remained back stage, however, as part of the decision-making that went into the preparation, and I left the acting to people who could memorize lines and control their stage fright.
In the spring of 1967 another rich memory was born. I was the assistant to the faculty member directing a premiere production of a play written by the campus poet in resident, my creative writing teacher from the English department. The author would come to rehearsals to watch the progress of his “offspring,” and consult with the director on production details. It was instructional to listen to these two intensely creative men. I became a sponge. Sometimes when they disagreed about some detail they would turn to me and say, “What do you think?” Sometimes I had an opinion, and I was grateful for the chance to put it into the mix. At first it seemed ludicrous that my opinion should count for anything; I was just happy to be there, absorbing the creative energy and facilitating the activities of all those other creative people involved in the production.
Now it is another spring, many years have passed, and it is my own play that is being prepared for performance. This is the fourth production I’ve directed of a play I’ve written, so I have heard applause before. If you aren’t careful, it can go to your head, and a person could become confused about what it means. A poet once described birth as “Trailing clouds of glory do we come, from God who is our home.” It occurs to me that the clouds of glory we trail after us are the talents we bring that are probably a spiritual inheritance from the Creator. When talents are used respectfully, with deference to the Giver of the Gift, applause takes on a much different meaning.
It is appropriate that as I have watched the tulips and daffodils bloom in my yard, I’ve been watching some wonderful talents bloom, too, at rehearsals. Flowers fade, but those talents will continue to grow. I watch them unfold and I catch my breath in astonishment at how and why it happens, and who makes it happen. That, for me, is another wonder of spring.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
What I Learned on my Summer Vacation
You CAN go home again, but it might not be there.
On the afternoon before we left Vancouver to return to Richfield, everyone indulged me as Jen drove us over to Portland to find the house where I grew up. I wanted my grandkids to see the lovely idyllic place on the outskirts of town that influenced my life so profoundly. We had a GPS to guide us, but it didn't turn out as I hoped it would. There was nothing left to recognize. Gone was the quiet neighborhood and three little rows of houses on two short streets. Gone was the dairy and the pasture beyond where we chased the cows in for afternoon milking. Gone was the farm land and the wild blackberry patches and the little stream where we found frog eggs in the spring to take home and observe their metamorphosis into tadpoles. Gone was the 50-foot row of irises on the north side of our house, and the roses that lined our driveway, and the ten cottonwood trees in the back yard where we played ball and the silver leaf maple in the front yard that overlooked my mother's rock garden. Gone was the quarter acre of garden space that fed us from year to year. Gone was the house, half of which my father built, where we ate breakfast every morning watching the sun come up over Mt. Hood.
But things changed. In its place was an industrial park of staggering dimensions - acres and acres of semi-trucks lined up in place of all that had been familiar, now guarded by miles of chain link fences, a testament to the power of change.
Disappointing though it was, in a way I was glad. I am secure in the memories of childhood that shaped my life. They are always mine, always available, always part of me, and I can paint the picture in words whenever I want to. It is enough. I am content.
On the afternoon before we left Vancouver to return to Richfield, everyone indulged me as Jen drove us over to Portland to find the house where I grew up. I wanted my grandkids to see the lovely idyllic place on the outskirts of town that influenced my life so profoundly. We had a GPS to guide us, but it didn't turn out as I hoped it would. There was nothing left to recognize. Gone was the quiet neighborhood and three little rows of houses on two short streets. Gone was the dairy and the pasture beyond where we chased the cows in for afternoon milking. Gone was the farm land and the wild blackberry patches and the little stream where we found frog eggs in the spring to take home and observe their metamorphosis into tadpoles. Gone was the 50-foot row of irises on the north side of our house, and the roses that lined our driveway, and the ten cottonwood trees in the back yard where we played ball and the silver leaf maple in the front yard that overlooked my mother's rock garden. Gone was the quarter acre of garden space that fed us from year to year. Gone was the house, half of which my father built, where we ate breakfast every morning watching the sun come up over Mt. Hood.
But things changed. In its place was an industrial park of staggering dimensions - acres and acres of semi-trucks lined up in place of all that had been familiar, now guarded by miles of chain link fences, a testament to the power of change.
Disappointing though it was, in a way I was glad. I am secure in the memories of childhood that shaped my life. They are always mine, always available, always part of me, and I can paint the picture in words whenever I want to. It is enough. I am content.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Top Ten People I Won't Spend Time/Money On
Help me out here. I've come up with a list of nine of the top ten people I won't waste my time or money to watch either on the big screen or the little one. The fact that I've never seen their movies or TV shows doesn't prevent me from making a value judgment just from the previews. Can you add the tenth to the list?
10. (your suggestion)
9. Larry the Cable Guy
8. Chuck Norris
7. Cameron Diaz
6. Paris Hilton
5. Drew Barrymore
4. (group) 4 of the five women on The View
(I watched this show once and I want that hour of my life back.)
3. Adam Sandler
2. Mike Myers
1. Ben Stiller
10. (your suggestion)
9. Larry the Cable Guy
8. Chuck Norris
7. Cameron Diaz
6. Paris Hilton
5. Drew Barrymore
4. (group) 4 of the five women on The View
(I watched this show once and I want that hour of my life back.)
3. Adam Sandler
2. Mike Myers
1. Ben Stiller
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
I'll Take Stupid Dreams for $1000, Alex
It isn't often that I have a dream I remember, but a couple of mornings ago just before I woke up, I dreamed that my big idea for a retirement activity was to open a game store. It would have board and card games of all kinds except those associated with gambling and those depending on electronics. Kids would flock here after school to play board games with their friends. The store would sponsor tournaments in Scrabble, Monopoly, Boggle, Battleship, etc. and even teach people how to play bridge so they could get together and make friends with other bridge players. This place would be all about having fun.
But the really big draw would be that it would sell snacks for you and your guests to eat while playing the games either at home or at the store. There would be a taffy pulling machine in the window to attract customers featuring a flavor of the week, a big popcorn wagon with a flavor of the day, candies of all kinds, plus baked (NOT packaged) goods like doughnuts, muffins, cookies and cupcakes, made by me personally. Customers would love the free samples.
Never mind that a game shop in Richfield opened and closed within six months a couple of years ago. Never mind that I don't know anything about running a business. Never mind that I'm too restless to be tied down like that. Never mind that it's totally illogical as so many dreams are. For a minute or two it made perfect sense, but I'm not going to do it.
What do you think this dream says about me?
But the really big draw would be that it would sell snacks for you and your guests to eat while playing the games either at home or at the store. There would be a taffy pulling machine in the window to attract customers featuring a flavor of the week, a big popcorn wagon with a flavor of the day, candies of all kinds, plus baked (NOT packaged) goods like doughnuts, muffins, cookies and cupcakes, made by me personally. Customers would love the free samples.
Never mind that a game shop in Richfield opened and closed within six months a couple of years ago. Never mind that I don't know anything about running a business. Never mind that I'm too restless to be tied down like that. Never mind that it's totally illogical as so many dreams are. For a minute or two it made perfect sense, but I'm not going to do it.
What do you think this dream says about me?
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Happy Birthday, Son
This is the 30th anniversary of our famous recording for posterity when Roger tried to prove that Jordan's first word was "light."
We had the big party and dinner for the one-year-old and Dad turned on the tape recorder and asked Jordan what that thing was above the table. "Can you say light?" Silence. He had said it before, but not on tape for posterity, and Roger was determined to prove that his child was sophisticated enough to say this word instead of the usual ma-ma, da-da. "Say light." More silence. It went on for several minutes like this.
So after much coaxing and no response, the conversation went on with Jen and Elin talking about other things Jordan could do, and what the family was doing. When the attention left him, Jordan decided to "perform," but the rest of us were so busy with our conversation that we didn't hear him. Only when we played it back later did we realize that in his background babble he was actually saying "light." We were talking about something else, and his little voice can be heard repeating, "Yite, yite, yite." We have laughed about it over the years and tried not to ignore him anymore when he finally does what we ask him to do.
He is the light of our lives, and that's one reason I sent him a lamp for his birthday. It just seemed like the thing to do.
We had the big party and dinner for the one-year-old and Dad turned on the tape recorder and asked Jordan what that thing was above the table. "Can you say light?" Silence. He had said it before, but not on tape for posterity, and Roger was determined to prove that his child was sophisticated enough to say this word instead of the usual ma-ma, da-da. "Say light." More silence. It went on for several minutes like this.
So after much coaxing and no response, the conversation went on with Jen and Elin talking about other things Jordan could do, and what the family was doing. When the attention left him, Jordan decided to "perform," but the rest of us were so busy with our conversation that we didn't hear him. Only when we played it back later did we realize that in his background babble he was actually saying "light." We were talking about something else, and his little voice can be heard repeating, "Yite, yite, yite." We have laughed about it over the years and tried not to ignore him anymore when he finally does what we ask him to do.
He is the light of our lives, and that's one reason I sent him a lamp for his birthday. It just seemed like the thing to do.
Monday, May 11, 2009
TV or Not TV
We have been keeping a viewing diary for the Nielsen TV ratings organization since last Thursday and while it's annoying and such a big hassle, it also tells us a lot about our viewing habits. It amused me to see that there are two columns to mark – one for when the TV is on, but another when it's off. Logic would tell us that if it isn't one it's the other, but the Nielsen people just want to be sure. Of course there isn't a lot you can view when the set is off, but I guess that's beside the point.
Full disclosure: my favorite channels are the Food Network and HGTV. I've learned a lot about cooking, even tried some of their recipes, and a lot about home decorating, and I've exercised some of those principles in redecorating my home, quite successfully, I might add. Sometimes Roger watches those shows with me, and we critique as we go. It's nice to learn, after all these years, what his tastes are in food AND home decor.
While I am one to sit down and watch specific shows, Roger tends to have the TV on ALL. THE. TIME. To him it's background music. He's a genius, of course, being able to correct papers and watch Poirot or Sherlock Holmes at the same time, and then tell you the plot, the red herrings, and who after all done it. This is amazing to me because otherwise this man has a one-track mind and is easily thrown into a heart-stopping dither when multitasking is required. But that's another story.
When he doesn't have a second task, TV dial spinning is a form of recreation. He starts at one end of the dial and channels up or down, stopping sometimes for several minutes on programs I know he doesn't care about, like baseball or a countdown of the top ten submarines on the military channel. Soon he moves on, lingering again at some other channel with an odd topic he isn't interested in. And he does all of this with the sound muted. That's right, muted. Even if it's a channel and topic he might be interested in, there's no sound. He stares at it, trying to figure out if maybe it's something he might want to watch, and doesn't turn the sound on.
He kind of does the same thing when an unexpected piece of mail comes. "Wonder who that's from," he'll frown. "Read the return address," I'll say. "Who do we know that lives in Provo," he'll puzzle. "Maybe your sister," I'll say. "Oh. Maybe it's a birthday card," he'll say. "The only way you'll know is if you open it," I'll say.
Since most of daytime TV is insanely boring, like pouring wet cement into your brain, the diary shows the TV is usually off more than 12 hours a day. If I'm suffering insomnia I might watch late shows or movies to bore myself to sleep, but there's nothing worth watching during the day before Glenn Beck comes on in the late afternoon. I'm done with the TV when that's over, but when Roger gets home, the dial spinning begins. There aren't many shows we watch in the evening, outside of cable news shows, and I have a short tolerance for those. Roger can always find something. Today it was an documentary on the history channel about the dark ages. Fascinating, but I'd seen part of it before.
From past experience, I know the TV is on much more during the day when Roger is home than when I'm here alone. I think the TV is on too much, but he is a local news junkie, especially weather reports. Local news makes me crazy. I have to leave the room. I can foresee a problem with this when he retires (in two weeks) and we're together all the time. We will have to have a discussion about this if I expect to maintain my sanity.
It's quiet now. He went to bed an hour ago and I can enjoy the silence or play music of my choice on my computer if I'm so inclined. We will mail our TV viewing diary on Friday, and the Nielsen people will probably draw the conclusion that anybody who watches Fox News that much is probably a scary freaking redneck. I'll be glad not to have to keep track anymore. But it has made me think about what I do with my time.
Full disclosure: my favorite channels are the Food Network and HGTV. I've learned a lot about cooking, even tried some of their recipes, and a lot about home decorating, and I've exercised some of those principles in redecorating my home, quite successfully, I might add. Sometimes Roger watches those shows with me, and we critique as we go. It's nice to learn, after all these years, what his tastes are in food AND home decor.
While I am one to sit down and watch specific shows, Roger tends to have the TV on ALL. THE. TIME. To him it's background music. He's a genius, of course, being able to correct papers and watch Poirot or Sherlock Holmes at the same time, and then tell you the plot, the red herrings, and who after all done it. This is amazing to me because otherwise this man has a one-track mind and is easily thrown into a heart-stopping dither when multitasking is required. But that's another story.
When he doesn't have a second task, TV dial spinning is a form of recreation. He starts at one end of the dial and channels up or down, stopping sometimes for several minutes on programs I know he doesn't care about, like baseball or a countdown of the top ten submarines on the military channel. Soon he moves on, lingering again at some other channel with an odd topic he isn't interested in. And he does all of this with the sound muted. That's right, muted. Even if it's a channel and topic he might be interested in, there's no sound. He stares at it, trying to figure out if maybe it's something he might want to watch, and doesn't turn the sound on.
He kind of does the same thing when an unexpected piece of mail comes. "Wonder who that's from," he'll frown. "Read the return address," I'll say. "Who do we know that lives in Provo," he'll puzzle. "Maybe your sister," I'll say. "Oh. Maybe it's a birthday card," he'll say. "The only way you'll know is if you open it," I'll say.
Since most of daytime TV is insanely boring, like pouring wet cement into your brain, the diary shows the TV is usually off more than 12 hours a day. If I'm suffering insomnia I might watch late shows or movies to bore myself to sleep, but there's nothing worth watching during the day before Glenn Beck comes on in the late afternoon. I'm done with the TV when that's over, but when Roger gets home, the dial spinning begins. There aren't many shows we watch in the evening, outside of cable news shows, and I have a short tolerance for those. Roger can always find something. Today it was an documentary on the history channel about the dark ages. Fascinating, but I'd seen part of it before.
From past experience, I know the TV is on much more during the day when Roger is home than when I'm here alone. I think the TV is on too much, but he is a local news junkie, especially weather reports. Local news makes me crazy. I have to leave the room. I can foresee a problem with this when he retires (in two weeks) and we're together all the time. We will have to have a discussion about this if I expect to maintain my sanity.
It's quiet now. He went to bed an hour ago and I can enjoy the silence or play music of my choice on my computer if I'm so inclined. We will mail our TV viewing diary on Friday, and the Nielsen people will probably draw the conclusion that anybody who watches Fox News that much is probably a scary freaking redneck. I'll be glad not to have to keep track anymore. But it has made me think about what I do with my time.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
I'm Back... Well, Sort Of
Be of good cheer. I'm all done talking about my knees.
My brain hasn't fully recovered from the anesthesia and I'm having a hard time writing anything, so I'm just going to plunge in and force myself to make my fingers move on the keyboard. I am feeling a little smug, however; another blog I've visited recently hasn't had a new post since September, 2008. I've only been 'away' a couple of months.
When I was in college many years ago, a distant cousin I met there used to take me to art shows and parse out all the paintings for me, give his mini-reviews of the artist's capabilities, and put art in context for me. I loved it so much! I decided then that some day I would get to know real artists, collect their work, and have a little art gallery in my home. I didn't know then how I would do it, but I would. Sounds wacky, doesn't it, high minded and idealistic and maybe it bit unrealistic.
Fast forward to 1976. After living out of the country/state for six years, we decided to return to Utah to be closer to family. Roger drew a circle of a 100-mile radius from Provo where his parents lived, and started applying for jobs in those school districts. He got a job in Sevier School District… Richfield… south-central Utah, 111 miles from Provo. When we came to look for a place to live, I felt I was going back in time a year for every mile across the Gunnison desert, 30 miles in all. As we made inquiries about housing, most people literally opened their doors just a crack because we were strangers, and all of them asked one of two questions: who were we related to locally, and did we have temple recommends. The answers were nobody, and yes, but that was none of their business. We just wanted a place to live. There were few apartment buildings, but an unfortunate availability of trailers. I was horrified, but we moved into one with two bedrooms, smaller than the one we had come from in our previous place. It was insanity waiting to happen. I agreed only on the condition that we build a house as soon as possible. We used the small bedroom for storage and put Jen and Elin, ages 4 and 1 at the time, in the large bedroom; we bought a hide-a-bed for the living room and slept on it as long as we could - until we couldn't pretend anymore that the iron bars were comfortable. Then we slept on two twin bed mattresses on the floor, which we purchased for the girls to use later when we moved to a real house.
We moved into said house February 10, 1977. We were welcomed into the ward, and as we got to know people I found some were involved in getting a community theater going. That suited me, and I got involved. Having planned to be a gardener, but being thwarted by spring allergies, I soon realized I'd have to put my energies somewhere else. Eventually I volunteered for some other community activities, and that led to a part-time job with the school district, writing news for the adult education program and helping the director. He got me involved in an arts celebration, and by 1981 I was doing an art show. All I knew about it was what my cousin taught me all those years ago, but ignorance has never stopped me before. I went to the county commission, convinced them of the worthiness of the project, and they agreed to sponsor it. We could hang the show in the community meeting room in the basement of the courthouse - no natural light, but plenty of artificial light. We were going to be unique as art shows go and leave space for children's art as well as experienced artists' works. I wanted it to be a place where children could learn that art didn't end with the cut-and-paste projects they did in school; art could go on for their whole lives. The commission chairman, whom I later discovered to be a closet weekend painter, apologized that they could only lend their names. For the purchase of ribbons and certificates, he opened his wallet and handed me a $20 bill, and wished me luck. For the first five years I did the art show entirely by myself. Eventually the commission included in their budget a modest amount for the show. I knew we had arrived when commission candidates began including in their campaign literature that they supported the art show.
Over the years I became acquainted with many wonderful artists, purchasing several works of art which now hang in my home. I treasure these friendships and honor these talented people. I am a word artist, but not a visual artist, and yet I believe my appreciation gives them a reason to continue doing what they do. They have enriched my life beyond measure, beyond what I thought would happen as I pondered my future in Richfield, lying on a mattress on the living room floor of that trailer and crying myself to sleep more than once.
Twenty-five years later, in 2006, I retired from the Commissioners Art Show and handed it over to a capable, knowledgeable successor. And it has continued. When I gave my 'farewell' speech at my last art show awards dinner, I told this story:
Although Henri Matisse was nearly 28 years younger than Auguste Renoir, the two great artists were dear friends and frequent companions. When Renoir was confined to his home by almost paralyzing arthritis during the last decade of his life, Matisse visited him daily. Renoir continued to paint, and one day as Matisse watched the elder painter fighting torturous pain with each brush stroke, he blurted out, "Auguste, why do you continue to paint when you are in such agony?"
Renoir replied simply, "The beauty remains; the pain passes."
I will be thinking about that story again when I go to the 2009 Commissioners Art Show on Saturday morning. I will see art work done by many of my friends of all ages, and by some new artists I don't know. But I will remember the beauty and pleasure I have experienced as I made this effort through the years to contribute to my community, to have some reason for being in Richfield. I have received much more than I have given.
My brain hasn't fully recovered from the anesthesia and I'm having a hard time writing anything, so I'm just going to plunge in and force myself to make my fingers move on the keyboard. I am feeling a little smug, however; another blog I've visited recently hasn't had a new post since September, 2008. I've only been 'away' a couple of months.
When I was in college many years ago, a distant cousin I met there used to take me to art shows and parse out all the paintings for me, give his mini-reviews of the artist's capabilities, and put art in context for me. I loved it so much! I decided then that some day I would get to know real artists, collect their work, and have a little art gallery in my home. I didn't know then how I would do it, but I would. Sounds wacky, doesn't it, high minded and idealistic and maybe it bit unrealistic.
Fast forward to 1976. After living out of the country/state for six years, we decided to return to Utah to be closer to family. Roger drew a circle of a 100-mile radius from Provo where his parents lived, and started applying for jobs in those school districts. He got a job in Sevier School District… Richfield… south-central Utah, 111 miles from Provo. When we came to look for a place to live, I felt I was going back in time a year for every mile across the Gunnison desert, 30 miles in all. As we made inquiries about housing, most people literally opened their doors just a crack because we were strangers, and all of them asked one of two questions: who were we related to locally, and did we have temple recommends. The answers were nobody, and yes, but that was none of their business. We just wanted a place to live. There were few apartment buildings, but an unfortunate availability of trailers. I was horrified, but we moved into one with two bedrooms, smaller than the one we had come from in our previous place. It was insanity waiting to happen. I agreed only on the condition that we build a house as soon as possible. We used the small bedroom for storage and put Jen and Elin, ages 4 and 1 at the time, in the large bedroom; we bought a hide-a-bed for the living room and slept on it as long as we could - until we couldn't pretend anymore that the iron bars were comfortable. Then we slept on two twin bed mattresses on the floor, which we purchased for the girls to use later when we moved to a real house.
We moved into said house February 10, 1977. We were welcomed into the ward, and as we got to know people I found some were involved in getting a community theater going. That suited me, and I got involved. Having planned to be a gardener, but being thwarted by spring allergies, I soon realized I'd have to put my energies somewhere else. Eventually I volunteered for some other community activities, and that led to a part-time job with the school district, writing news for the adult education program and helping the director. He got me involved in an arts celebration, and by 1981 I was doing an art show. All I knew about it was what my cousin taught me all those years ago, but ignorance has never stopped me before. I went to the county commission, convinced them of the worthiness of the project, and they agreed to sponsor it. We could hang the show in the community meeting room in the basement of the courthouse - no natural light, but plenty of artificial light. We were going to be unique as art shows go and leave space for children's art as well as experienced artists' works. I wanted it to be a place where children could learn that art didn't end with the cut-and-paste projects they did in school; art could go on for their whole lives. The commission chairman, whom I later discovered to be a closet weekend painter, apologized that they could only lend their names. For the purchase of ribbons and certificates, he opened his wallet and handed me a $20 bill, and wished me luck. For the first five years I did the art show entirely by myself. Eventually the commission included in their budget a modest amount for the show. I knew we had arrived when commission candidates began including in their campaign literature that they supported the art show.
Over the years I became acquainted with many wonderful artists, purchasing several works of art which now hang in my home. I treasure these friendships and honor these talented people. I am a word artist, but not a visual artist, and yet I believe my appreciation gives them a reason to continue doing what they do. They have enriched my life beyond measure, beyond what I thought would happen as I pondered my future in Richfield, lying on a mattress on the living room floor of that trailer and crying myself to sleep more than once.
Twenty-five years later, in 2006, I retired from the Commissioners Art Show and handed it over to a capable, knowledgeable successor. And it has continued. When I gave my 'farewell' speech at my last art show awards dinner, I told this story:
Although Henri Matisse was nearly 28 years younger than Auguste Renoir, the two great artists were dear friends and frequent companions. When Renoir was confined to his home by almost paralyzing arthritis during the last decade of his life, Matisse visited him daily. Renoir continued to paint, and one day as Matisse watched the elder painter fighting torturous pain with each brush stroke, he blurted out, "Auguste, why do you continue to paint when you are in such agony?"
Renoir replied simply, "The beauty remains; the pain passes."
I will be thinking about that story again when I go to the 2009 Commissioners Art Show on Saturday morning. I will see art work done by many of my friends of all ages, and by some new artists I don't know. But I will remember the beauty and pleasure I have experienced as I made this effort through the years to contribute to my community, to have some reason for being in Richfield. I have received much more than I have given.
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