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It has been more than three years since the death of Leonard Roberts. To us, his wife, daughters and our husbands and our children, he was more than a folklore scholar. To be sure, we were aware that he taught for a living. For the most part we were not a part of that part of his life. We remember him outside the classroom, away from the conferences and speaking engagements. And because he and our mother encouraged our independence in the pursuit of our individual interests, not insisting that what they studied was what we studied, we girls—to some extent—were ignorant of his life outside the home. We were, and are, proud of the Leonard Roberts the public knew and respected. We knew and respected him in other ways, for other reasons. , f ^Airtsr 1¦ijgss**"" ' \ \ fuSpring 's Sanctuary I found a place where white violets climbed a hill. To walk there would violate their fragile grace. A colony of Mayapples clustered, each with two parasols shading one waxed star, golden centered, hanging like a lamp. I could not step within their lighted path. Trillium stood nearby, maroon, thrice tripled. I would not break their proud stance or leave them bent. Wild iris spread on moss covered rocks holding the blue dropped from the sky. My feet slipped in the dampness. Alone, a canopied pulpit stood shielding a slender priest who prepared bloodred fruit for autumn's communion. —Margaret D. Kirkland 17 ...

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