same actor and actress: MTA, an artist with brushes and easel, a mustache and French beret; his daughter J., poignantly the innocent, young girl, roller skate skinny, to borrow from Salinger, and a countenance that can only be described as highly endearing. I still cry, though less boisterously, whenever I chance upon it, even think of it. Why that scene and its following sequence affect me so profoundly even now, over half a century later, Im not sure. Of late, however, I have begun to suspect that it represented something, not only the particular father and daughter of that time and place, but also all those unique and salient things, lifes special moments that pass on down the river and around the bend far, far too swiftly. Long before I ever comprehended the fact, that photograph had begun to symbolize a profound truth regarding mortality itself. And yet, waiting there upon an empty stage in an empty building, I felt it all returning. Expectantly, I glanced about looking for those furnishings that regularly disappeared from our home as a signal that the long, late-night rehearsals were ending. Another play was about to open, and in consequence our living room couch would probably be gone, along with chairs, wall paintings, a little brass lamp that I half fancied had belonged to Aladdin, and an even greater favorite modeled after a soldier from World War I, rifle and bayonet in one hand, a raised grenade in the other. It was, ironically, from that upraised hand that the light shone forth. Once my bed itself vanished, only to magically reappear along with various other missing items at opening night on the Moench stage. Standing there alone, yet not alone, I remembered long hours nailing canvas flats, and the scenery meticulously rendered by artist B.Y. Andelinsimulated shelves full of books, door frames, windows with trees, sky, a yellow quarter moon, and the mountains beyond. I recalled student assemblies in later years the celebrated Laurence Burton-Dean Hurst Comedy Act, Comedian Don Solberg of the ever malleable countenance, skits and songs by the girls of LaDianaeda and Otyokwa, and a barbaric parody of Hamlet, discourtesy of the Phoenix Fraternity, long vanished into ashes, of which I was a member. Among the cast were Jerry Nilsson, Dee Jacobs, Yours Truly as off stage narrator, and Cheerleader Neil Hess starring as a wild-eyed and incredibly gymnastic Hamlet: TB or not TB that is congestion! A portentous pause followed by the passionate inquiry: Consumption be done about it??? Then departing even further from poor Shakespeares original: Of coffee can, of coffee can! Horrible! But it nearly rolled em in the aisles if anything ever did. Once more I lived what was simultaneously my own clebut and finale as an actor upon that selfsame stage. Some kind of animal show performed by our neighborhood kindergarten, one in which I played the part of a mouse. Moments before curtain time, garbed resplendently in my mouse costume, its head still tucked beneath my arm, I heard someone among the audience call my name. Or so it surely seemed. Obediently, I made my way through the curtains and gazed out across a pool of faces. Was anybody calling me? I shouted. No response, only a gentle wave of laughter. Perplexed, I stared at them. Hmmm, thats funny, I mused. I thought I heard some-one calling me. I have pondered since then the symbolical possibilities of that situation also. Have I perhaps missed my calling as an actor? Not likely, although there is much truth in the argument that all teachers are actors of one kind or another, hams at heart, including those of us who carry on at Weber State. In any event, having played the role of a mouse on the old Moench stage eons past, Ive reflected since upon my sometimes questionable success as a man upon the stage of life. Departing that smaller, yet remarkably bounteous stage for the last time, I glanced back at its velvet curtains, the deep, almost sepulchral blue, unfurling their own mysterious universe. Drapes of that same material covered windows at the back of the auditorium, emitting mere slits from the reclining day. The broad stairs spanning the stage creaked in my descent, echoing with a soft, undeniable endlessness. The dark, wooden seats waited expectantly, anonymous, but somehow highly personal as though ready to speak. I was all alone, yet part of a remarkable gathering, surrounded, in the words of De La Mare, by a host of phantom listeners. Overhead the ceiling was beginning to slump in places, the outer elements having soaked their way through. From just above came the soft, persistent brooding of many pigeons. The following day the Old Moench began to collapse and soon buried itself with the aid of a wreckers ball. DANIEL MARTINO AND THE CULTURAL CENTER Even as the old Moench was collapsing, a far grander and more cosmopolitan edifice was arising in effect from the rubble. Completed in 1966, Webers Val A. Browning Center for The Performing Arts is one of the finest of its kind in the nation and stands today as the heart of things cultural both for Weber State College and the surrounding community. The Browning Center is also the natural consequence of something called vision, vision in its best sense, and hard, incessant work. Paramount among its Founding Fathers have been such men as Dr. William P. Miller, former Weber State President, who perceived the need with clear, wide-ranging understanding. I have come to realize, he once explained, that we need a gymnasium first and right after that an excellent fine arts center. Classrooms, important as they are, can be obtained any day of the week. Other important founders have included: Dr. Robert A. Clarke, a former Vice-President at Weber and Chairman of the Fine Arts Center Project; Dr. Clair W. Johnson, who championed the need for a vital, elevator type orchestra pit; Keith Wilcox, the Centers creative architect; M. Thatcher Allred, who researched at length the requisites for such facilities; Richard Van Wagoner; and Dr. John Elzey who furthered so energetically the development of that edifice in its secondary stages. Fundamental to the Centers continuing growth and great success since then has been prominent Ogden industrialist Val A. Browning whose financial contributions in that connection have literally proven awe-inspiring, and Mark Evans Austad, former Weber Student body President and later Ambassador to Norway, who has also provided substantial monetary assistance. If, however, the Browning Center is the heart of culture for Weber State and