I don't think I knew Brian Dana Akers in the 1970s, but since I was working closely with his brother and knew his parents socially it's pretty likely I met him once or twice. Anyway, he's grown up to write science fiction and has a lengthy online autobiography on his personal website. About a quarter of the way down the page is a word portrait of his father, Owen, which includes Action Now in a long list of organizations Owen participated in. Brian's father was as remarkable as the portrait suggests. What I think the portrait misses is that Owen's heavy workload was fairly seamless; I had contacts with him in several of his roles and he was always the same person, working on the same causes, and finding reinforcement from his friends and colleagues as he moved from meeting to meeting. A strenuous life, yes, and not everyone loved Owen Akers, but many did.

Brian's summation is all too true:

When someone like this dies, it's like standing on the rim of a huge crater. Only as the crater recedes into the past do the survivors comprehend the size of the hole in their lives, appreciate the death's force of impact, and realize all that was vaporized.

More, though. Owen was an inspiration to his friends, and to some of his opponents. That did not end when he perished.

I spent years doing political organizing. Brians' brother, David, was one of my colleagues in those efforts--he was the key voter registration and get out the vote organizer whose activities complemented our voter contact efforts in the early 1970s. That I had his respect was always a source of satisfaction, for Dave's commitment to the work was far greater than mine. David Akers was a formidable organizer, bringing talent and passion to everything he touched. David was quite different from his father, but equally committed to his father's causes.

We lost contact when I moved to Lansing. I'm saddened to learn that he died fairly young.

Postscript: While I was working on this essay, iTunes delivered Rhonda Vincent's performance of Carl Story's If You Don't Love God:

If you say you love Him while you hate your neighbor then you don't have religion. You just told a lie.

Fitting.

A good man.  We'll miss him.

Doug at Coors Field on July 11, 2003.

Compuserve's forums had little rooms off in the corner where folks could scribble down profiles of who they were and what interested them. (Perhaps they still do; it's been a long time since I checked.) I was wandering around the Model 100 Special Interest Group one day and found a note in the member profiles inquiring whether anyone had any experience with or interest in carrying a Model 100 on a bicycle. Since my laptop rode my bike to work every morning, and regularly travelled between Lansing and Kalamazoo, I figured I was the target audience and dropped the member a line.

That was my original encounter with Steve Roberts. Steve replied with a chatty and enthusiastic note explaining what he was up to. It was immediately apparent that we were really talking about different things, but Steve's ambition to live a connected life on a bicycle was and remains one of my life's roads not taken. We traded a few notes, even after he hit the road, but this was essentially a casual contact.

Over the next few years it was pretty hard for me not to notice Steve's project. He supported himself partly by writing articles about the trip, so friends would discover him in whatever magazine they read and bring him to my attention--and I'd say "Yeah, I knew Steve when...."

Looked Steve up on a whim last night. He now writes blog-like notes (with photos) daily, and a real blog as well. Steve's still the same guy--tinkerer, promoter, enthusiast--I remember from twenty years ago, but now he's building a Microship and planning a long cruise. (But first a shakedown voyage.)

Actually, he's building two. It takes a really odd sort of confidence to build a boat for a woman who hasn't yet arrived. Looks like she has. Steve's life works for him. As does mine for me.