I remember all the times Cynthia invited my family to Bryce. The drive seemed to go on forever, but it always ended the same way- the creak of the huge front door, the pounding of feet on the wooden landing to shake off the snow, and the clang of the door knocker as the door slammed shut. We were usually the last people to arrive on Friday night, but dinner and a house full of friends were always waiting. As for entertainment, the only television at Bryce was a tiny, 3-inch, black and white set that was not worth the trouble to turn on. Instead, Cynthia arranged games. She taught us all how to play 99, a game I taught my family a few months ago. Bryce was the best house ever to play hide and seek. There were the closets, the drawers under the beds, and the spooky utility areas in the basement. Once, Cynthia hid behind the refrigerator. She got the other adults to tell the kid-seekers that it was pulled out so repairmen could work (and we fell for it). I remember she got "Cymbeline" for charades, but used up her entire three minutes wiggling around and flapping her arm trying to get people to say "Shakespeare." And then there was that infuriating map-pun game that she invented herself (clue "Sick Undies," answer "Brazil")... the list goes on. But most of all, Bryce was for skiing. Cynthia gave me a lifetime love for skiing. Without her generosity, I would never have known the thrill of speeding down a mountain or the joy of teaching my daughter to do the same. Thank you Cynthia. I will think about you often and miss you terribly. Carrington Bradley