He worked for decades as a property master at one of the major film studios, often on location, sometimes mundane, sometimes exotic. He didn’t have much good to say about the stars he worked with—except Elvis. He loved Elvis. “A real gentleman,” he used to say. But he loathed Marlon Brando, having once spent seven months in Tahiti filming Mutiny on the Bounty. He came back with a bunch of vinyl albums of Tahitian music, a man’s ceremonial headdress, and a long cloth Polynesian print skirt. Normally quiet and ultra-taciturn, when they had one of their many backyard parties and he’d had sufficient alcohol, he’d strip off his pants and shoes, don his Tahitian headdress and skirt (usually with an Izod t-shirt), put on the records, and do his Scottish white guy version of Tahitian male dancing. The parties usually broke up soon after. She stayed home, socializing with her many friends, doing craft projects and helping friends in need, spoiling the little girl who lived next door who she treated like a granddaughter, tending to the house, tending to the herds of dogs they had—mostly Scotties with the occasional mutt thrown in—and generally having a good time. She was much quieter when he was home. Sometimes when he was not on location she’d go on vacation with her friends and leave him to tend the house and the dogs. He really loved his dogs.