I was working at the Renaissance Faire in 1973, and it was midnight and a full moon. We were all up at the top of procession hill, dancing where somebody had drawn greves on the ground with luminescent vietnam surplus helicopter landing marking powder. A jeep roared up and Kelly, the head of security, politely demanded that we all get back below the firebreak (Agoura was tinder dry-how hard it must have been to herd all us jolly hippies)I started running down the hill and fell and slid and rolled in the dirt and brush and ended up at a campsite in the actor's camp. A bearded man helped me up and helped dust me off and then bad me sit at his camp. He pulled out a tibetan singing bell, first one I had ever seen and produced it's clear ringing tone. Then he sat up and told us (for some had gathered) The Tale of the Man in the Mousekin jerkin. My friend, my brother, my lost prophet Mark Lewis. He was the best of us, and instead of becoming an international movie star, he became a hometown prophet with his lovely family in beautiful Eugene, Oregon. We were born the same year, and we worked together several times. Emmy winning, universally loved, cantankerous, patient, kind and wise Makr Lewis. It's getting to be that age for us. We lose the friends we hold dear. I hope to meet you again, Mark Lewis, on that other shore.