For nearly three years, Andrea's weekly column appeared in the Sunday edition of the Enterprise Newspaper. Called City Lights, it was a reflection of the community - the people who make the city of Brockton tick - and of Andrea's experiences in and out of town. The following column based on her adventures as a volunteer on the Men's Downhill and Super G run at the Salt Lake Olympics 2002. It was to have been the final column of it's run, but it was not published. Enjoy it here!

Someone said, "Look! Alpenglow!" It was the sight of dawn's first sunlight hitting only the highest peaks, and "it" was gliding toward us. Only moments before, the sky had been navy blue with a hint of purple. With each minute, the pastel prism of light deepened to what could be best described as tangerine pink. We were at 9,000 feet altitude ready for work.

Most mornings began that way. Along with about 499 other ski and snow crazy people, I was assigned to my first choice venue when I applied to be a volunteer at the Sale Lake City 2002 Olympics: the notoriously steep Grizzly course at Snowbasin; the site of the Salt Lake City Olympic men's downhill, combined and super-g events.

The schedule called for 13 straight days of working on the two-mile run, which bragged of up to 78 % (not degree) pitches. Divided into teams, our work took place on the course itself. We were the necessary slave labor who willingly dragged crash pads into position or dug our ski boot toes in the perilous run to shovel and rake loose snow off the course.

We also set up snow shoots, and cleared nets in order to make the course safe for racers who would launch themselves at speeds up to and over 80 mph down the bullet proof terrain.

For the duration of my Olympic moment, home was a comfortable mattress on the living room floor of pals Bob and Laura in Park City. My trusty Timex watch alarm buzzed most mornings at 3:25 a.m., prompting me to climb back into the official Olympic uniform I had shed only hours before. Continuing the day by catching the volunteer shuttle at 5 a.m. after a 45-minute drive to the site became something I looked forward to, in spite of my puffy eyes and aching knees and hips telling me I should still be in bed.

The folks I had been teamed with totaled two women and seven men, and we were from all over the country. Common factor: we all loved to ski and there wasn't a slouch in the bunch. Ranging in age from 35-67, we acted more like giddy nine-year-olds at summer camp having the time of our lives instead of the business personas we portrayed at home.

Gut-splitting laughter, sarcasm and caddy comments about my old race helmet from the 60's punctuated much of the day, yet when it came to getting on the lift in the dark at 6:15 in the morning to begin the task of grooming the slopes, each member pulled his or her own weight. Some found stamina they didn't know they had. Others like me lamented missed days at the gym. We lived in our ski boots for up to 11 hours per day, and we loved it. We loved being together, and we loved being a part of the Olympics. No one would be voted off the island. Our time on the hill was rewarded with watching the world's greatest athletes compete; some crashed others climbed back through a missed gate to deny disqualification. We cheered for them all.

The racers were all good. Real good, and we bottom-of-the-food-chain volunteers got to see them up close, and to witness the ritual of their race day beginning in the early morning light, then hear it end with the roar of 25,000 spectators in the grandstands at the finish line. I attended other Olympic events such as men's hockey, women's hockey and short track racing - yes, I saw Apollo, but my little adventure/experience on the hill taught me more than I expected: how complex it is to present a world-class race event, how many people it takes, what course injection is, how hard it is on a recreational skiers body, how grueling it is on the athlete's bodies, how grandly the Olympics affects the spirit, how my personal love of the sport continues to grow, and how even the "annoying one" in the group was essential to our success and to our fun. It was amazing. This story isn't unique, really. I am just one of many who volunteered for the unglamorous position, but my trip was made possible because of my fantastic husband. He understands why I've skied for 38 years, so he knew what being a part of the Olympics would mean to me. He insisted I go. He forfeited his own western vacation so that I could leave town for 24 days. He stayed home and took care of the cat, the bills, and the "un-fun" stuff. So if you see me on the street with that classic "far away look," I'm still coming home from the Olympics - a life moment I'll treasure always.