At the Cantey Awards, Rick Young and Roger Bridges announced the dedication of the Props Room to Jon Mauney and the Sound Recording Studio to Ed Bodell. Here is Rick's dedication, full of laughter and sadness:

I would like to thank my mother for divorcing my birth father when I was four years old. You see, my birth name was Ruehl, R-U-E-H-L.  Several years after my mother married my stepfather he formally adopted my brother and me, changing our last name to Young. Had this not happened, I would not have, thanks to alphabetical seating, been sitting behind Steve Wall in my 11th grade English class at Broughton; I would not have been able to overhear him talking to the lovely young girl seated to our left about the upcoming production of Li’l Abner; I would not have even thought to ask him if there was anything I might do on the production since I had only seen one play in my life, and never worked on one; I would not have, at his suggestion, shown up the following Saturday to help paint the set; I would not have ended up designing the set that very same day because the designer, one Andrew Leager did not show up; and I would not, forty years and three months later, be standing here on this stage. Had it not been for my mother’s marital foopah, I might have been sitting behind Bobby Richman and overheard him talking about this nifty idea he had about something called a computer. DAMN YOU MOTHER!

But semi-seriously, had it not been for that single fleeting instant, at that single tiny spot, the time and place that I found my wings, my life would have been completely different. When I contemplate that, and I do spend a great deal of time contemplating, what I would regret the most about missing my life would not be the 120 hour work weeks nor the poverty level income nor even standing in the anonymity of back stage while the actors got all of the applause. No, as wonderful as all of this is, what I would miss the most are the people. At last count, I have worked with at least 33 different theatre organizations, professional, community, and educational, encompassing the full range of size, budgets, and expertise; but there is one thing they all have in common, one single through-line, the people. Now I’m not saying that it was the same people at all of those theatres. I mean that would have been just creepy. But I challenge anyone to find a consistently finer group of people. Sure every theatre has its assholes… and you know who you are, but if it weren’t for them who would the rest of us talk about.

If you are feeling lonely and looking for a friend, come to the theatre. If you want unquestioning acceptance, come to the theatre. If you want to be seen for your strengths instead of your weaknesses, come to the theatre. If you are a lost soul desperately searching for an anchor to grab onto, come to the theatre. If you need a family, come to the theatre. We use that phase so often that it begins to sound almost trite, “A theatre company is like a family,” or in my case, “My family is like a theatre company.” But it is oh so true. Unfortunately we get so busy, so focused on getting the show on stage we rarely take the time to tell those we are working with just how much they mean to us, just how important they are. Then the show is over and we may never see them again, or far, far worse they are ripped from us. Our family has suffered some great losses over this past year. Most of them I never met; I don’t even recognize their names, but they were my family, and without them we would be less than we now are. Two in particular, were taken far too soon. And we need to thank them. We need to tell them how important they were, how important they are.

I only had the privilege of working with Jon Mauney a few times, but he was once a fixture at RLT. When I needed someone to take charge of the dentist chair and it’s various torture devises for Little Shop of Horror, I was told immediately and by many voices, call John. It was my first encounter with him, and though the task was wrought with difficulties and setbacks, he never wavered in his positive attitude; he never lost his smile. And so it was always with John, whether gutting a room full of typewriters for How To Succeed or creating a bleeding razor for Sweeny Todd, he remained the quiet, creative, brilliant man with a smile. In recognition of his devotion to Raleigh Little Theatre this plaque will be placed outside of our prop room dedicating that space to his memory. And it is my personal promise to you John that we will put a real door on the prop room.

Of all of our losses this year the one that has impacted me personally the most was Ed. To this minute I expect to turn around and see Ed Bodell standing there, “I’ve got a couple of hours. What can I do for you?” And invariably that couple of hours would become three, four, five. Despite the countless hours he spent working with Roger and me and the Thursday Afternoon Gang, he still managed to find time to work in the box office, stage manage, and design sound. And then go out to other organizations giving his time and his heart with just as much zeal and enthusiasm. And all the while he remained a wonderful giving husband and father. For Ed his reward came with the giving. He never expected anything in return. I know he would hate what we’re doing now, but Ed, I don’t care, your getting what you deserve. Tonight we are dedicating the Sound Recording Studio to the memory of Ed Bodell. It is the perfect space for Ed. Not only was he more at home there that virtually anyone else, but to the general population it is just a simple door hidden away on a dark hallway. A place that you might walk right by without even knowing it’s there, but without it we could not do what we do here. It is like Ed. I was given the gift of seeing Ed shortly before we lost him but he was weak and I was not able to tell him how much he meant to me, to so many of us. So Ed, listen up.

The world is a sadder place for your passing, but that sadness is paled into insignificants by the joy and comfort you brought it with your presence. It was not enough that you showed us by your example how to live with such dignity, you showed us how to die with dignity. I have no idea what they are going to do with you in heaven because you became an angel while you were still down here. You were, at first, my co-worker because you gave me your boundless energy. You became my friend because you shared your unquestioning companionship. You grew to be by brother because you embraced me in the warmth of your heart. You are my hero because you allowed me to glimpse at your soul. I will always love you, Ed.

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