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Making use of her well-honed business chops, this 1976 BYU Marriott grad has spent retirement focused on improving her community—one creative solution at a time.
Jennifer Rockwood stepped onto BYU’s South Field and gazed numbly across the green turf. “What have I gotten myself into?” she recalls thinking. “Can I really do this?”
What if moving halfway around the world wasn’t a grand departure into the unknown but, rather, a return to the familiar?
It reads like a worst-case scenario: you’re slicing through rough air to check on an offshore oil rig when the unfathomable happens—the chopper goes down. Would you survive?
At the base of lofty Mount Nebo in rural Utah, Traci Memmott wraps up a conference call with a team in New York City. She jots down a few notes, gathers her things to leave, and closes up shop—she has an important appointment.
“Citius! Altius! Fortius!” Heralding the commencement of the 2002 Winter Olympics, the 360-member Mormon Tabernacle Choir reverberated John Williams’s “Call of the Champions” across Rice-Eccles Stadium.
Growing up in Central Florida, Erik Jacobsen pretty much knew he wanted to be a cowboy by the time he was twelve or thirteen years old.
Alison Davis-Blake isn’t one for convention. Her quiet demeanor, questioning mind, and drive to excel have always set her apart.
Sumptuous. Decadent. Delightful. Few words could more adequately describe a box of Lula’s Chocolates. Neatly perched inside each mahogany-colored package await aromatic round crèmes, salted caramels, square truffles, and nuts cloaked with melt-in-your-mouth cocoa.
Born on a pair of Levi’s in a small trailer and circumcised by a doctor whose surname was Butcher, Daniel Burleigh’s entrance into the world seems like the beginning of a modern-day Charles Dickens tale.
It’s 9:58 p.m. in a small, dark theater. The audience members, an eclectic mix of fashionistas and film fanatics, sit whispering, their faces washed in the green glow of the theater’s exit signs.
Underneath glittering stage lights the bass player and keyboardist pound out a melody. The lead singer sidles up to the microphone and belts out “American Idiot” with enough angst to fool anyone into believing he’s a member of a teenage garage band.