You’ll also be able to tell that despite leveraging his skills for the lead-in, I’ve kept this year’s honorees a secret until…well….now.  The hour has come.  It’s time to announce this year’s REAL Award Honorees.

Once again, we have two amazing people who embody all that the REAL Awards celebrate: those that live life fully, taking and bringing joy to each day simply because they can.  These are the people we are thankful for – those that have truly embraced the important – family, friends, community – and by example encourage us to do the same.  They are each remarkable, and we look forward to celebrating their lives.

So without further delay, this year’s honorees are…..

We look forward to seeing you at the 2013 REAL Awards on August 24th to celebrate this year’s Honorees.

And for those that want to know more about the history or other honorees of past REAL Awards, you can watch the 2012, 2011 and 2010 Announcements here. 

This week was busy – DC, NYC and Orlando – and it reminded me why I loved the east coast.  DC put on her best face this week – bright, clear, just warm enough to feel like spring, cool nights that demanded a sweater. In the clear sunshine, DC seemed clean and welcoming, with the cherry blossoms making their last hurrah while the flowers were just beginning their first tentative forays into the sun.  People everywhere were talking about the weather, as if they were creeping out of their winter sleeps. 

DC is not, of course, clean or welcoming, and it’s only because I’m now a visitor there that I have that perspective.  Faces are still harried, traffic is still snarled, and politics still overlay everything, but on those amazing spring days it does all seem to fade away. 

NYC was similarly beautiful.  I had taken the train up, an early morning train, and had enjoyed the three hours of relative silence and reflection.  I love the train….I sit next to the window and watch the towns go by with whatever soundtrack I’ve chosen for the day playing in my ears (that morning was James McMurtry, Mark Knopfler and Emmy Lou Harris, for what it’s worth.). 

There’s something about the isolation of the train, of being encapsulated and protected for a few hours, alone but not, that I find incredibly comforting. It’s romantic: not in the traditional, oh-I-love-you sort of way, but in its simplicity and clear purpose.  Unlike a plane, there’s no hassle….grab your tickets, walk on, sit down, and accept the invitation for a few hours of introspection that the trip offers.  I get lost staring out the window, not noticing two or three people have come and gone in the seat next to me through the stops and starts.  I’m always somewhat sad when the train hits Newark.  From there, it’s dark and painfully slow until Penn Station and you’re forced into the harshness of a busy Manhattan morning.

My meeting was on Madison Avenue (hilarious), so I grabbed a bite at Barney’s because it was literally across the street and I was starving.  It seemed a quiet place to sit for the hour I had to pass.  Some despise this – I’ve listened to fellow travelers say over the year how much they hate to eat alone.  I have no issue with this – I’ve spent enough nights at a “table for one” in any number of countries that the idea of dining solo doesn’t bother me in the least.

But I quickly realized, sitting at the bar eating my $30 salad and a diet coke served in a wine glass with a perfectly round lemon slice (why anyone ruins a perfectly good diet coke with fruit is beyond me), that I was strangely uncomfortable.  All around me were ladies who lunch, dressed stylishly if somewhat foreign in their more cultivated east-coast styles than one finds on the more laid-back west coast (think St John’s suits, not Lillith layers), in groups of two and three, sipping champagne cocktails and porting bags and bags of equally stylish goods.   I was not one of them, and occasionally, I got a strange look from one table or another.   I was remarkably self-conscious, and fumbled for something to do.  My cell phone was no help – I had read all of the news stories in the cab, my opponents hadn’t moved in Words by Post, mail was either too boring or too hard.  So I squirmed, ate quickly, felt like the uncool kid at the high school dance and left.

The next meeting didn’t help my sense of being out of place.  I was meeting with some TV and film folks – a world I know nothing about – in the offices of a hedge fund that had offered its videoconferencing setup to connect LA with NY.  The whole thing was like out of a movie – serious looking young analysts in expensive suits with their sleeves rolled up chatting in language I didn’t even pretend to understand.  TV people catching up with “old friends,” explaining that this one’s son was dating this one’s daughter, so of course they would be interning in each other’s offices before heading out for the summer to the shore. 

I stood there thinking, “How did I get here, and how do I get the hell out?”  For whatever reason, I always feel out of place in NYC, but I had done all of the things I was supposed to – I looked fine, had carefully selected an outfit that was sufficiently serious for the meeting, but different enough to mark me as an individual.  I had a Surface with me.  My lipstick, carefully checked at Barney’s, was a piquant shade of pink that masked how tired I was. I had read all about the guy I was meeting with and was prepared.  I have worked with the folks from LA and enjoy them.  Nothing about me said, “education dork.”  But I was out of place.  I tried not to laugh or talk too much; I tried to be witty.

The meeting was fine, and the rest of the week was as to be expected – meetings, email until too late, not enough sleep, more meetings – until I landed in Orlando for a talk at a conference late Friday night.  Other than the relatively few people that were on my flight, the airport was mostly empty when we landed just shy of midnight.  Lights dimmed, shops closed, it was a remarkably peaceful end to what had been a long trip.  I jumped a cab to the hotel, checked in, changed and walked right back out.

I went out because I was back in the South, and everything felt right.  I needed to get out of the hotel and feel it….in that same tangible way that I felt out of place in NYC, I felt right at home in the South.  I’ll grant that Florida isn’t *really* the South, and I’ve never been a fan of the state in general.  But it’s close enough when you spend all of your time anywhere but there, and I needed more.

It was warm – about 75 – and humid.  The air hung heavy, still and enveloped you like a wet towel.  There was no one at the hotel still up except a few stragglers at the bar and a few college kids at the pool, so I found a lounge chair on the far side of the sprawling property, turned to face the darkness, and sat.  I love these kinds of nights, when it’s still and heavy.  Seattleites would call it hot, but in the South we’d call it a “right cool night.”  I had a sweatshirt on, music in my ears, hard pack in my pocket.  It felt right, and I heaved an audible sigh as I shifted from sitting on the chair to being held up by it.

James McMurtry has a great line in Levelland, “Mama used to roll her hair/Back before the central air/We’d sit outside and watch the stars at night.”  White trash?  Totally.  My childhood?  Check.  Mom had short hair, but we’d go to Nanny’s, and I would sit outside on the front porch with Aunt Barbara and Aunt Cindy, them freshly showered, me freshly bathed, while they smoked, drank wine, and waited til their hair dried.  They had window air at that point, but nothing dries long hair like a warm summer night.  No one thought twice about it – every other woman was sitting on her front porch drying her hair. We chatted.  Let Sugar the dog out to sit in the grass.  Nanny would come to the front door, crack it open, tell us she was going to bed, don’t forget to lock the front door.  And we would sit some more.

Even as a young girl, sitting out there made me feel grown up, part of the crowd.  I didn’t know what they talked about, and so I’d sit and drink Aunt Cindy’s sweet tea and try to keep up.  I’m sure as I got older I was a snotty teenager that thought this whole scene was gauche.  I am positive that as a snotty young adult going to a snotty college back East I looked at the whole scene with contempt.  But I didn’t go inside.  I sat, on the porch, while our hair dried.

Add it to a long list of things I didn’t understand then.

So I sat there, thinking about nights on Nanny’s front porch in Georgia, Dad’s side porch in Tennessee, the back porch in Texas at Mom’s.  Unlike NYC, those were places I belonged, and no matter what color lipstick I had selected, I would never feel out of place there. 

I lament that in Seattle we don’t have those nights that are hot and humid and oppressive and perfect.  I don’t like that building code requires our porch railings to be so high you can’t see your neighbors.  And I’ve long since cut my hair too short to need a drying routine, but it might be worth growing out if I could recreate the intimacy and comfort of Southern porches.  Of course, I’ve learned to love something different – fleece jackets and warm hats in summer – but sitting there in Orlando, I missed those Southern nights.

It was perfect, and if I could have stayed awake another few hours, I would have sat outside there all night.

But alas, a week of travel caught up with me, and I hauled myself back upstairs, climbed into yet another perfectly made hotel bed with crisp white sheets tucked tight enough to be uncomfortable, and fell asleep just in time to wake up.  The next day was no different than the ones before, and before I knew it, I had slung my bag across my shoulders, put boarding pass in my hand, and walked through the crowds, alone but not, in another place that I feel remarkably comfortable. 

I sat the window, watching the lights of interspersed towns grow further and further apart as I crossed the country, the soundtrack of the day playing in my head as the discomfort of the east coast faded away, thankfully and eagerly headed home. 

In just a few short weeks, we will announce this year’s honorees, but before we do that, let’s take a moment to look back, remember a really fun night, and celebrate our amazing honorees from 2012 one more time.

Scott and Jane, here’s to you!

Note to Parents: as with all things related to the REAL Awards, best not to watch this with your kids in the room, unless they are at that blissful age where they don’t ask questions yet…

We hope to see everyone on August 24 for the 2013 REAL Awards!

It’s also a very tough decision, as we have so many amazing friends that embody the spirit of the REAL Awards (and more than a few that would make for an entertaining evening).   That we suffer from a wealth of good choices is a blessing, but since Aaron reminds me that the night already teeters on that fine line between a-great-celebration-into-the-wee-hours and the-party-that-would-never-end, we have once again selected just two very special people to celebrate this year.

So with no further delay, take a look to see who will be this year’s REAL Awards Honorees:

Mark your calendars now: Saturday, August 18, 7:30 PM, Laughing Dog 2.  The evite will go out this weekend, so check your email spam folders!

Special thanks are in order this year, as I had a great deal of help in making this year’s announcement.  Many, many thanks to Kate, Kimberly, Lou, Frankie and Miles for standing on a street corner for a few hours holding signs and having their pictures taken almost 1000 times.  And a very special thank you to the fabulous people at A La Bonne Franquette in South Seattle, who generously allowed us to use their sidewalk and their power outlets, all while wining and dining us during a full dinner service.  Not a bad place, BTW, to have your pre-awards dinner….just sayin’

We look forward to seeing everyone in August to celebrate this year’s honorees.

In reality, the video has to accomplish three things.  First, it must explain what the REAL Awards are – a celebration of the people that enrich our lives simply because they are who they are.  Second, it must intrigue people who have not attended before enough to want to come to the Awards and celebrate this year’s recipients.  And third, it must announce who the recipients are (duh).

In reality, the first two are just lead-ups to the third, but I have it in my head that they are necessary parts to a successful announcement video, so that’s what I’m going with.

This year, I need your help.  I’m not particularly creative or original, but I am fearless in stealing other people’s ideas, and I’ve been inspired by the 99% as a theme for this year’s announcement video.  And here’s where I need your help.

Send me a picture with you holding a sign explaining your favorite thing about the REAL Awards.  Mojo has done an example for you.  Explain however you wish – in a single word, in a paragraph; be serious or be funny; make your sign fancy or plain; show your face or let your sign be your persona.

Whatever you send, we’ll use – and it will be all that much more interesting because we’ll all be part of this year’s announcement video.

Please send your picture along to me or Aaron by June 3rd.

It was a *fun* night, and on August 18, we’ll do it again this year.  Stay tuned for the announcement of this year’s recipients in a few short weeks….

As many of you already know, my father passed away last week. Suddenly, unexpectedly and far too young. We aren’t sure what happened, but it doesn’t really matter — Dad’s not here anymore.

For twenty-four or so years, I’ve called my dad on Sunday night. It’s a long-standing tradition, one that survived through adolescence, college, marriage and China (where it became Monday morning phone calls). Throughout the week, I’d make a list of things to tell him, and our calls would last an hour or so. I’ve missed very few and when I did, I called on Monday. I regret that last Sunday I was on the west coast and remembered too late to call. Dad died Monday morning.

My dad was 59 years old, and if you ever met him, you wouldn’t forget him. For those of you that he met, he never forgot — he asked about you and was happy for the babies, weddings, promotions, new jobs, graduations and new homes.

Dad was the world’s best story-teller, and while I had heard his stories a kajillion times (and tell them now myself), I never tired of sitting on his side porch, doing what we do best in the South — visiting. We did a lot of that this week with the family around and old friends.

Dad always said he’d have to give away barbeque and beer to get anyone to come to his funeral, and he would have been amazed — and touched — at who called, wrote, visited and otherwise reached out to Meg, Sandra and I this week. Dad knew everyone, could talk to anyone, made friends everywhere he went, and this week, it showed.

I flew home to DC on Monday, picked up Meg, and we drove home Tuesday. Dan and James flew down later in the week. We wanted them there, needed them there, and they were wonderfully helpful, but Meg and I wanted to drive.

I got my fascination with fast cars from Dad, and we both inherited the love of the road trip from him. It wasn’t an easy drive, but if you’ve never driven through east Tennessee, I encourage it. My family is from Tennessee, and despite growing up in Texas, it’s home. And my dad loved Tennessee, despite having traveled all over the world. It was for him, and me, home in every sense of the word.

May is by far the most beautiful month in Tennessee. It’s warm but not hot, and the evenings are cool enough to sleep with the windows open. Horrific afternoon thunderstorms break up the monotony. So we got on the road, tolerated Virginia, and breathed a sigh of relief when we hit the Tennessee state line. It’s a palpable difference that you have to see to believe.

Interstates in the south are different than back east — wide and open, with seas of wildflowers in between the lanes — and are worth driving. The wildflowers are red and pink and white, but the shades change when the wind blows. It’s fascinating that red and pink and white seem to self-select into equal thirds, and I got angry to find a patch of purple breaking up the consistency somewhere near Watts Bar Lake.

As you come in Hamblen County just south of Knoxville going west on 1-40, pause for a moment — the Great Smoky Mountains lie out before you in all of their glory. They are old mountains, worn down by nature, and seem to simply ebb and flow forever. Much older than the Rockies, the Smokies aren’t nearly as sharp and jagged — there’s no skiing to speak of — but simply rise and fall, much like the agrarian or mining lifestyle of their residents. The haze is permanent, a silky fog that hugs the tops of the hills. Skip Gatlinburg and head to Beersheba Springs down south, or Crossville and Bean Junction back east. Drop your pretension, and those people will welcome you with open arms.

The mountains are steep — Dad used to talk about Smith County cows, which had one set of legs shorter than the other — and difficult to navigate. The interstate bends and curves down steep grades, and I’ve seen more than one runaway truck buried in sand turnoff. It’s worse going to Chattanooga, but from Bristol at the state line to Knoxville to Nashville is almost a straight shot down until about 30 miles east of Nashville. Your ears pop and the temperature rises fifteen degrees.

The mountains plateau momentarily at Crossville where most of the family now lives (Dad was somewhat of a rebel, living in the big city). If you get off, go north and on the right is Green Acres cemetery. It’s a beautiful, small, typically southern cemetery, and if you look closely, you’ll see the testament of how many in the Looney family have lived and died in those mountains. There are flowers at every grave and the grass is neatly trimmed, a labor of love of the family that maintains it. Stop at the Cumberland General Store on the way back to the interstate, and get yourself some sweet tea. It’s real tea — not that fruity, corn-syrup crap we’ve all gotten used to.

From that exit to Dad’s exit, it’s 110 miles. Sandra holds the record for the best time home, as far as I know. Dad taught Meg and I how to drive: accelerate into a curve, drive the inside of a curve so you drive a straighter line, don’t lose momentum going up the mountain, be nice to truckers and they will let you draft. Track your time, and if you averaged less than 55 mph you’re wasting time. We had long-standing “races” between Nashville and Crossville, where my grandparents lived. Before we’d get on the interstate, he’d say “OK, what time is it? Exit to exit, and all tickets are mine.”

It’s exactly 670 miles from Nashville to DC, and Meg and I made it back in exactly 10 hours and 27 minutes, an average of 63.8 mph, including an hour-long stop to run Ernie (Dad’s dog) and eat lunch. Dad would have called it a “damn good run,” told the folks at the “fillin’ station” about it.

There are wonderful fillin’ stations and truck stops in East Tennessee — there’s a Texaco in Sevierville that’s always open, a roadside stand near Morristown that has boiled peanuts, and a place at the Carthage exit that’s still carries moon pies and RC colas (a favorite combo for my dad). People will chat, give directions, ask about the family. And if you get hungry, you’re never more than exit or two from Cracker Barrel.

Dad loved Cracker Barrel, and Meg and I do too, but we just couldn’t quite bring ourselves to go. At the one near the house, we’d have to tell all of the waitresses that Dad had passed — he knew them all, their grandkid’s names and so on. When I was there in February they were showing him pictures, talking about Christmas.

Dad remembered every detail of their lives. I have no idea how Sandra will tell Tiny at the bait shop, the teenagers at Subway, the ladies at the dry cleaners or any of the other thousands of people that somehow knew my father.

We paid tribute the only way we knew how. We listened to the Eagles and Willy Nelson, lamented the lack of Roberta Flack and James Brown on the MP3 player (Dad had great taste in music). We sat on the screened-in porch, drank a few beers and listened to the frogs (His taste in beer left a little to be desired, admittedly).

We chatted with family and old friends, remained strong together, shed a few tears, told stories, remembered things we had forgotten about.

Meg and I brought home two of Dad’s denim shirts, the only thing he had worn in the past 15 years, regardless of the event.

Many of you have called, emailed or written. Thank you. One day, I will read them all, but right now I can’t. I know that Dad always wanted us to not grieve — open up a beer, turn up the music, and have a hell of a party, he’d say — but that was easier to agree to when he was alive.

I’ve been cheated and I’m pissed — Dad needed to be here another 20 or 30 years. But I also know that it will be OK at some point, and for now, I’m content to remember my dad as he was — a wonderful father that I will miss terribly. We’re following Dad’s advice whenever things got tough — “press on.”

So if you’ve got nothing better to do, put on some Eagles (Lyin’ Eyes, preferably), drink some light beer from a can, smoke a cheap cigar and sit on the porch for a while. Dad would be proud.

In Memory

Jerry Lawson Looney

September 3, 1942 – May 6, 2002

Joe was my first boyfriend and my first kiss (during a game of spin the bottle at Amy Patrick’s Christmas party, no less), but that was a momentary distraction of early adolescence (a 2 week romance, maybe?). We were friends, and throughout middle and high school, Joe was one of my closest and dearest companions. It was a friendship that started early – when I came to Waco and St. Louis Catholic School, Joe welcomed this “outsider” into the tight-knit group that had mostly been in school together since kindergarten.

By eighth grade, Joe and I were fast friends. After our parents would go to sleep, we would call each other and watch David Letterman together. Letterman was still new – and on NBC – and doing things like putting on Velcro suits or debuting stupid pet tricks. We would watch and laugh together, then talk about it the next day. We did that for years and for so many shows, especially with Cheers¸ which came on the air our 7^th grade year and which we both loved. And Monty Python re-runs….good lord we watched Monty Python movies countless times….and then we’d watch them again…

When my younger brother Matthew was born before our freshman year, Joe was like an uncle to him. Joe was regularly at the house, and he would pick up Matthew and spin, saying, “Whoopee” as he spun the giggling baby in a circle. He did it so often that Matthew called him “Whoopee,” and to this day, when we’re telling stories or catching on people in town and Joe’s name comes up, we all call him “Whoopee” when Matthew is in the room.

Anyone who met Joe immediately knew that he had a gift in making people laugh. Joe was side-splittingly funny. He did impressions of slow-talking, Texas-drawling Coach Smith that would have landed him in detention – except Coach Smith was never quite sure who Joe was talking about (Coach Smith, who would pump gas with a cigarette in his hand, telling the football players riding in the back of his pickup, “Boys, hope y’all went to Mass this morning….”). His imitations of our slightly batty, wholly eccentric biology teacher Mrs. Van Zandt would have us holding our sides as he mocked her instructions for dissection, wagging his finger just as she would do (Once, Joe was mimicking her at the front of the class when she walked in behind him….we all reacted in horror, ready for her wrath, but even she had to giggle and let it go). And his unrelenting – and deadly accurate – rendition of Senora White’s southern-twang slaughtering of the Spanish language was nothing short of hysterical.

What made Joe funny was not just his quick wit – his one-liners were legendary – but his ability to extract the essence of people and amplify it. It’s what made him so fabulous on stage, where he loved to be more than anywhere. Joe knew early on that he loved the theater, and he spent his life acting and directing across the country before coming back to Waco several years ago.

Joe stayed in Texas for college, and through the years since then, as we both moved around the country, we stayed in touch more – or less, at times – through our parents or mutual friends or the rare catch-up back in Waco. With Facebook, we had reconnected, and it was wonderful to be able to get a glimpse into the life that he had built around his love of the theater.

I was at Disneyland last week when the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID, and it was not-often-heard-from friend from high school. I assumed it was a pocket dial, and ignored it. But when the voice mail notification sounded, and then the text message followed, I knew something was wrong. In listening to my friend Scott’s message, my heart sank. Joe was in the hospital, and it was serious. Two days later, the terrible news came early in the morning. I mentioned it to Aaron, thought about the pain that Joe’s family must be going through, and texted back a request to let me know about arrangements.

The morning was hectic – any morning with small children and working parents is – but as I sat at work, I kept coming back to my friendship with Joe and how much it meant to me growing up, how central he was in my life for so many years, and how so many of my good memories were simply because of him. I was blessed – I went to a small school with wonderful families that provided a supportive, loving community in which we could begin our fits-and-starts transition to adulthood. We were close – there were only 35 or so of us in the graduating class. And as would be expected, at different times during those years I was closer (or not) to several friends.

But Joe was a constant throughout all of those years – whether as my lab partner (once we killed a goldfish whose respiration we were supposed to be timing, so we slipped the dead one in the aquarium and grabbed a new one while the aforementioned Mrs. Van Zandt wasn’t watching. We got an A.), in band (Joe played sax), on shows (him on stage, me on set or lights or something for the untalented), on dates (he went on many of them, and Joe pretty much had to approve of any potential suitor or it was doomed more quickly than your usual high school romance), or even letting me join him and Amanda at senior prom after my date was sadly in a car wreck the night before.

By the end of the day, I had decided I really needed to go to Texas and say good-bye. Aaron kindly agreed to watch the kids, and I flew down Sunday morning.

The services were beautiful, the community supportive of the grieving but wonderful Ginnane family, the stories of Joe familiar and funny and heartening. I watched his large family, thinking that no one should have to bury a son or a sibling, sometimes laughing through tears as they celebrated his wonderful life with the faculty, actors, students and friends that knew him. I marveled at the strength of his parents.

Seeing him at the visitation, and standing at his graveside, was simply, and overwhelmingly, sad. I struggled with a whole range of emotions – regret for not having stayed in closer touch over the years; nostalgia for what was a mostly idyllic adolescence; a musing over whether a simpler, slower life in Waco would be better for my own family; and the startling, harsh recognition of the mortality we all face. I struggled to keep my composure, but cried more than I expected and lingered at the cemetery. I probably hugged his mother one time too many, not knowing what to say.

I have mostly lived my life in decades – 10 in Tennessee, 10 in Texas, and (roughly) so on through Smith, DC and now Seattle. Those experiences have been so different, and in each, a small handful of people stand out – and stayed around – as having been formative during those periods. Joe was one of them.

I’ve been luckier than I deserve – I’ve been able to see a lot of this earth and lived in some marvelous places. But I think any of us that move away from home struggle, at least a little if we’re honest, about why we did so. As I talked to those that still live in Texas, I had to wonder how the opportunities I’ve had stacked up against the stability of being closer to family and to my roots. Friends who have grown up together, gotten married and have kids, and now whose children are friends or play football or go to camp together…there’s a certain beauty and peace in that.

And while I do not regret the path I have taken and am eternally grateful for the friends I have made, kept, and in some cases, even lost, standing at the grave of a childhood friend forces a certain reflection. Burying Joe made me realize that there is one less person in this world that I loved, that helped me become who I am, grounded and shaped me, shared those difficult teenage years, and made me laugh more than anyone I have ever known.

And that is what I think was most difficult – that terrible sense of loss, knowing that the memories I have of him are the only ones I will ever have. There will be no more new ones. With time, the focus will shift to celebrating those, not lamenting their distance and paucity. But there’s one less shining star in the world today, and one less friend to a remarkable number of grieving folks. It makes me mad that he was taken, frustrated at the finality of it, and deeply sad.

Rest in peace, my friend. You will help me remember the dash.

I must tell you, it was difficult to choose – there are truly some amazing people in our community of friends.  Most of these folks might not think of their lives as extraordinary, but that perhaps is the thing that makes their lives more remarkable – they bring such richness to our days so effortlessly, so seamlessly, and so beautifully that it is only fitting that we take a moment to recognize them for the wonderful people that they are.

But, alas, we had to choose two, and I’m thrilled to announce the new honorees for the 2011 Real Awards.  Both truly embody all that the Real Awards try, in some little way, to reflect.

And so while we our approach to recapping last year has been light-hearted and, hopefully, a little funny, we take a more serious moment now to announce this year’s recipients (tho we will of course shift back to fun in a few weeks….).

So take a look, congratulate this year’s recipients, and prepare to join us for the evening in a few weeks to celebrate two remarkable lives.