If anybody knows Marty, he was known for being this, like, curmudgeon. So it wasn’t like ooey-gooey loving. It wasn’t at all. It was, you know, if you complained about anything, he’d say, “Hey Sal, I’ll run you a benefit.” You know, it was about pick yourself up, dust yourself off and keep on moving. By then it was a kind of practicality about life that I understood, that I appreciated, that I would rather live by. There was no sniveling. You just did your work and then you went home. But you did your work. You didn’t make any excuses, you did your work. And I became Norma. I lived there. I learned how to work in the mill. I learned, I lived with the people. I didn’t look for anything, I just did my work. I didn’t look for anybody to say anything to me, ’cause I wasn’t used to anybody saying anything to me really, except, “Get out of the room.” And one day Marty came into my little motor home. I was scared that he was coming in, like, what had I done? Had I done something bad? Still terribly afraid and intimidated that somehow I wouldn’t be good enough. Somehow I would be found out. I wouldn’t be good enough. And he came in and, and sat down for a minute. And I was drinking a coke or something, getting ready to get back out in the heat, and he said, “Sal, I want to tell you…” I said, “Yeah?” “You’re first rate.” And I was so utterly stunned. It was all he said. “You’re first rate.” And he got up and left. And then it was shattered. It was the most important thing anyone had ever said to me. It changed me and I was forever his daughter, his other child, his protégé. He said few things to me of encouragement, but I knew how deeply he cared. And all I ever did, all I wanted to do, was to be enough for him.