These last two weeks have seemed like twenty years as all the memories of Dan have flowed through my heart and mind. These memories of course bring up many others so the time is very long. These B&W photos, taken by me, were on George Lustig's homestead in Wasilla. It was 1970 and Dan had set up a giant circular canvas Army tent on the property. I don't recall if he was working or just helping George or just being stoned. He was exceptional company and we seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time debating everything. We formed an unspoken bond and I always felt, over the years and no matter what else had transpired, that we were the dearest of friends. He and Nancy and the kids came to see me in Vermont, at my family's place in Jamaica, and lived in that motor home for a summer. They visited several times at my schoolhouse in Marlboro --- once enjoying a bitter New Year's Day skiing the empty mountain at Mt Snow. Jessica took a February vacation here once from school. I was able to visit them in Sutton when I made a return trip to Alaska after a 21 year hiatus. Whenever my son Ben told me that he ran into the Drydens or visited them, I would be delighted that Dan and Ben would be talking, that Dan would see the boy grown up, that Ben might learn from him.
I'm not being very eloquent here but this site has meant a great deal to me -- connecting me to the grief and the joy; feeling the vast, unending ripples of love for this great and lovely soul. Dan could drop into your life every five years or so and no time at all had passed, an unending conversation continued. He was 'briefly lent for our delight and hallowed by our love'.
Thank you, Dan.
Callie B Newton
The first meeting of Dan was on George & Callie's homestead, arriving on Number One, an Hippie schoolbus of some friend's who had just arrived here a few weeks after I had, the summer of '70. Mike and I were taking them to a real Alaska place. It was the rainiest of summers so it was inconceivable that here was a man who was living in a (10 man) tent for the third year. Siim Hanja, Anne, Moustache the dog, Tom, of the bus and I, strangers to Dan, and others, were back in the woods sitting around in the 10-man w/ Dan, talking &etc. for an while, when we heard a voice calling my name (I probably looked surprised as I was not expecting anyone else).
[Apparently Callie had directed friend Jim Wigton (fresh off a monkey island, fresh off the gravel AlCan, who somehow incredibly, had tracked us to this homestead), how to find the tent, after determining he was "o.k."].
An unidentified stranger was coming on the path and Dan's immediate reaction to the approach was to jump for his rifle and the door. He hadn't known us for that long, but we were under his roof, and therefore his protection no matter who or for what purpose someone was approaching for me.
And that's what the pirates encountered.
R.I.P. Loyal friend, Scott Semans.
.
In December 1976 Nancy and Dan’s wedding plans evolved by the hour in the kitchen of the big Korns Glenmont house on the Hudson south of Albany. Nancy would wear her mother’s ethereal 1930s lace gown, pictured in your website. What would Dan wear? I offered—I could maybe sew what he might like –he and Nancy wanted an old-time look, another century maybe. It was the bicentennial year and patterns featured 18th century shirts— would Dan like that? Even though I had learned to sew less than a year before, Dan and Nancy trusted me enough to let me make the right shirt. In heavy snow at twilight, Dan and I rushed to a tiny sewing store on the main street of the closest town. Dan made straight for the formal fabrics and pointed with absolute certainty at a copper-colored high gloss satin. That makes it sound like paint, but it really was as bright and metallic as a new Mercedes. It gave off light.
At Esther’s Korns’ sewing machine, I had the joy of knowing I could do something for the family who had been so kind to me. Through my hours of cutting and sewing, Dan and Nancy continued creating and editing their wedding vows. They were so intent that I hated to interrupt Dan for his fittings, but he was always willing, holding his arms straight out, euphoric, grinning in that bright cloth.
Dan glowed with love.
Dan could listen with a rare concentration, and listen with another listener. In Alaska, in 2002, we listened together to bluegrass and Ralph Stanley singing “O Death.” Both of us silent, lost in the music, yet sharing the mystery of death and one artist’s way to show it.
Dan could listen.
That same 2002 summer, Dan with my sons in his kitchen, helping them make their toast (Dan’s bread) and take care of themselves—the true job of a parent, I think, teaching our kids to take care of themselves. Dan did the job, and the world can see it now.
Long before that, in the spring of 1978, Boston, Dan gave me my first lesson in parenting. Before our long walk to the Boston harbor, Dan strapped baby Jessica in her brown corduroy snugli onto my shoulders and told me, “You’ll feel a certain dampness, but don’t worry about that.” I used this as my motto through raising my boys: A certain dampness, but don’t worry about that. I thought of telling that story at Jessica’s wedding, but it might not have been pleasing to the bride.
Dan was a father.
In 2004, Nancy and Dan stayed with us in Bordeaux, France and took in the Bay of Biscay, where further offshore are some of the biggest waves in the world. And we climbed le Dune du Pilat, the highest sand dune in Europe. Le Dune du Pilat is revered enough to have painted eggcups and tea towels in its image.
And Dan was irreverent enough to sled down the sand dune and entice my son to do the same.
Dan’s irreverence was a joy.
The day Dan and Nancy were attacked, I swam all day in the northern end of Lake Michigan with five dear women friends, out of touch with the world for 4 days in a 1910 cottage. On Tuesday August 12 I drove solo 5 hours south to my home, and when I stopped for a break I phoned my mother Mary Korns, just to pass the time as we often do. By then Mary knew all about your family’s loss. Yet Mary, knowing I had 3 more hours of solo freeway driving ahead of me, was able to chat easily of my lake retreat, my sons, her day, and hide her sadness, certain that once I learned about Dan I would be too grief-shattered to drive the rest of those miles. My mother protected me.
Dan protected those he loved. I’ll miss him every day.
Liza, Jeremy, Evan and Graham Taylor in Ann Arbor, Michigan
