I knew Dan from the Hellarity Squat, The Purple House and Ft. Awesome. He volunteered sometimes with East Bay Food Not Bombs, he was always quick to remind that he was a trade/share contractor and although he could cook and garden [He helped me out with the garden at People's Park in Berkeley at least several times,] he told me of many jobs he had done 'out there,' and he often couldn't join the Berkeley group because he had obligations elsewhere. That said he was a good brother and an overall empathic healer of sorts even if in a kind of sublime street smart worldly traveling subcultural nomadic way, it was genuine and he is missed. Peace and Love.

Dan was always "Danny" to me. With eleven years between us in age, he was, and will always be my little, blonde-hair, sweet smile, mischievous, crazy ideas, adventurous brother. Danny was a natural swimmer, winning many awards for his skills and talent in the pools.

During one of Danny's visits to our home, he saw that my husband had an old set of pole climbing spurs. The kind which uses leather straps to fasten the spike fittings to your ankle. You then have another leather strap that is big enough to wrap around you and the pole (or tree in Danny's case) for one to use to lean back into as you maneuvered your self up the tree. Danny wanted to see how far he could climb up a fir tree that was in our yard, using the spurs. He chose a tree that was about 2 feet in diameter and about 100 feet tall. It had several dead branches that Danny would break off (using a hammer) on his way toward the top of the tree. After a few rigorous and painful climbing steps, he felt he was finally getting the hang of things. But once he was about 20 feet up he said, "I'm tired. This is a lot of work and not a lot of fun!" As he attempted to climb down, he missed hooking the spur into the tree and was soon sliding his way, very fast, down the tree, but hugging (and hanging) onto it for dear life! He tried to get the spurs to dig into stop himself but wasn't successful until he was about 1 foot off the ground. He stepped off the tree and we hurried to unstrap him from the tree and removed the spurs from his ankles. When Danny turned around to show us the results of his fall, all of his tummy, chest, and the inside of his arms were raw and bleeding, leaving much of his skin on the bark of the tree. I remember Danny saying, with a huge smile on his face, "Well, I don't think I'll ever want to do that again".

To this day, whenever we see that tree or those climbing spurs, we think of Danny and his grand adventure with a fir tree and spurs.

Our dad died (suddenly) when Danny was 9 years old which left Danny without him for the majority of his life. I believe that Danny and Dad are both now together, making up for lost experiences and spending as much time together as they possibly can. I know they are creating memories and stories to then share with all of us when it's our turn to meet up again.

I love you Danny. I will never let the memories or our connection fade away. May you rest in peace my little brother.

Dan was the first person to take me to the Albany Bulb, which soon became the most precious place to me in the world. We were picking up firewood for an Occupy event and I had never met him before. I remember following him to his treehouse, full of awe for the art and universe expanding around me.

When he needed a break from the Bulb Dan would come and stay at the house I lived in at the time, Fort Awesome. I remember one night, I was maybe 19 or 20 years old, Dan said he’d let me ride his motorcycle. Without instructions he helped me climb on and he climbed on behind me. He showed me the accelerator and we pushed off before he remembered to tell me how to brake. I promptly crashed the bike headlong into a telephone pole and spilled off onto the ground. Dan broke into peels of his infectious laughter and immediately put me at ease.

I hope to honor Dan by remembering and recreating his delight in all things strange. ❤️

When Dan was 3, we were living in Seattle. Somehow, as a three-year old, he managed to climb the fence between our house and the neighbor's house. From there he climbed onto the neighbor's tree and then onto the roof of their house. He walked to the chimney on their house and shouted down it "Hello!!" The neighbors were shocked to hear a small boy's greeting come through their fireplace and quite "amused" that this young boy was walking on the roof of their house. Dan has always been on the hunt for adventure. Some discussion took place. Most thinking there was no way he could get on the roof by himself and that perhaps a sibling placed him up there. It didn't take much convincing for me to sneak him away and tell him if he could get on that roof all by himself, I'd give him a treat. And he did.
I miss you little brother!

Oh, Uncle Dan, I will miss you. I always loved hearing about your travel stories, and my adventurous spirit often wished to be out there with you.

I think my favorite memory is of a time you showed us some fire dancing and fire juggling. You had a long pole with fire on both ends and had asked Aunt Debbie to put the fire out on one of the ends. Once she did so, you flipped the stick around so she could douse the other end. But then you re-lit the first end Aunt Debbie put out! We all laughed as you spun the stick, Aunt Debbie desperately putting it out only to find that the other end was somehow still lit.

Uncle Dan, I always felt you understood me. You knew what it was like to feel the way I felt. Thank you for that quiet smile we shared as we both awkwardly sat there, both feeling like we didn't quite belong. I needed that. I needed to know there were people out there that were like me. Thank you. Wherever your next journey takes you, please save me a seat.

With Love, Lisa.

As Dan's mother I cannot believe how difficult it is to think of my son as no longer being in my mortal world. I loved him in ways that were very different from his siblings. At times it seems that my grief is more than I can bear. It is often in those times that I reflect on the many long conversations we had about his life and his friends. He loved his friends and, I am learning, was loved in return. My ability to express myself in gratitude for his friendships is woefully inadequate. For those I have met and enjoyed and for those I will never meet, know that I will be eternally grateful to you and I pray that whatever power blesses and supports us all will carry us through these difficult days ahead with the knowledge that Dan is safe and free from the pain and struggles he dealt with. Thank you is so inadequate but is so heartfelt. Thank you.