To most of the readers of this site, and his fans, he was a talented country western and pop singer with a bunch of hits in the 1980's. His music still plays on the radio, and most folks would recognize his tunes if not his name. I personally knew Dan, but not as a singer.

I knew his music, of course. I was a Baha'i child, and my parents were fans and made a point of letting me know he was a Baha'i too, and so Dan's music was simply a part of the texture of my childhood. My mom would turn the music up if his music, or that of Seals and Crofts, came on the radio and remind me that they were Baha'is too. Dan-the-singer was a distant reality, however.

But there was also my neighbor, Dan. That's the Dan I knew.

I bought property in rural Arizona from Dan's father in 2000, and Dan, my neighbor, lived two lots down on land his father owned. He was noted by everyone I talked to as being a nice guy -- nice enough that the mobile home dealer I bought my home from even commented on how good it was that I had Dan as a neighbor. The feed store owner knew him too, and the contractor who graded my lot commented on what a great neighbor I'd have.

He lived in a small trailer several hundred feet from mine, with one neighbor between us, and so I talked to him on a regular basis about things of no major consequence. Mostly this consisted of rural gossip, familiar to everyone who's ever lived in the country: how to deal with stray dogs, annoying neighbors, and troublesome varmits; county politics; horses and the keeping thereof; gardens; wildfires; and the weather. I brought him eggs, and vegetables from my garden. He gave me a smoking deal on some round pen panels for my horses and let me scavenge lumber from a pile he planned to burn. He showed me how to operate our shared well. His cattle dog eventually got used to me. He told me about being bit on the hand by a rattlesnake lurking in his woodpile (and in retrospect how horrifying for a musician that must have been!), and about playing Santa at Christmas in a trailer park somewhere, I forget where now. I can easily picture him as Santa. He drove an old SUV -- I think it was a  1980's era Suburban, if memory serves -- and he owned an antique Ford tractor that sometimes started and sometimes didn't.

In short, he was the sort of neighbor I was happy to have. The sort of country neighbor anyone would be happy to have. Just an ordinary country guy. I didn't know him all that well -- but I always smiled when I got a chance to talk to him, because I genuinely liked him.

It was well over a year before he casually mentioned a gig in a bar somewhere, and said that he was trying to restart his music career. And he handed me a CD of his new album, Make It Home, when I brought him over a couple dozen Ameracauna chicken eggs. In that moment, I made the connection, the light bulb went on, and I felt a little silly for not realizing it before: my neighbor was Dan Seals, the musician.

Dan had never mentioned his famous past before then. At least around me, he wasn't the sort to name drop or brag. He could have, easily. Twelve of the guy's singles reached number one on the charts, ten as a solo artist and one ("I'd Really Love to See You Tonight") with John Ford Coley, and one with Marie Osmand ("Meet Me in Montana"). He had multiple albums with major labels, and worked with numerous big names. Yeah, he could have bragged. But he didn't. He didn't even mention it.

I last saw him several months ago -- he'd moved away years before. He had purchased property of his own in Southern Arizona, but he stopped by to let me know that he had a lot up the road for sale and to ask if I knew of any buyers. It was a quick, casual conversation. I said no, but let him know I'd keep my ears open, and we commiserated a bit on the state of the local real estate market. I had no idea I'd never see him again.

And now he's gone. He was only 61, he seemed younger than that, and I had somehow assumed he'd be around for decades to come. 

Rest in peace, Dan. You'll be missed.

February 8, 1948 – March 25, 2009