Most Mensans probably know that David Mann had a second career performing weddings. Dwight and I have the unique honor of being the first couple ever joined in wedlock by Reverend Mann. I met David after I moved to Huntsville in 1980, and got to know him quite well in Mensa as well as through my job at NASA. For the next several years, I often heard how David was an ordained minister who could perform weddings, even though he had never actually done so. When Dwight and I got engaged in 1984, we decided to ask David to marry us, and to our delight, he agreed.

David turned out to be a natural at wedding ceremonies, with his soothing voice, calm presence, and obvious love of leading people at large events. At the wedding rehearsal, my father wanted to know more about this good-looking guy with the silky smooth voice who didn’t seem much like a typical minister. I said he was a fellow engineer out at NASA. "An engineer? He’s not a minister?" I said, "It’s okay, he’s a mail-order minister." Dwight then threw in on a whim that David was ordained in the "Church of the Cosmic Fuzzball" (obviously not the real church name). Needless to say, this did not reassure my father. Throughout the wedding weekend, and for the next year, he asked me again and again if I was sure we were legally married.

Even though David put much effort into our wedding, he refused to ask for or accept a minister’s fee. Instead, he requested that we bring back from our honeymoon the most interesting belt buckle we could find, since he collected them. I believe that the belt buckle tradition was continued with other couples wed by David.

David’s passing was a tremendous shock to me. He was a part of my life for 20 years, and in the back of my mind, I even thought he would be around to do my funeral. David, we love you and will miss you.

And yes, Dad, we’re really married…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

David and I joined Mensa in the same year, 1977, I in January and he in November. He and I are the only veterans of the Huntsville R.G. who've been to them all. So you can well imagine that together we've seen "a lot of water under the bridge" and "over the dam". He, of course, was intimately associated with shaping the character of our R.G. and making it a standard by which other R.G.s are judged.

One of my earliest memories of David is of a Thursday afternoon, 1978 June 22, when he guided a group of us Mensans through NASA Building #4610 where we were able to "get up close and personal" with a space shuttle which was standing on end, wired for all kinds of tests. In my archives I have a home movie from that event.

Needless to say, like all who knew him, I'll miss David sorely. Requiescat in pace, dear friend.

Al Matthews

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"Saltavit...Placuit...Mortuus est...

"He danced about. He gave pleasure. He is dead."

I found this quote in The Grand Promenade, Spangle, Volume III by Gary Jennings, a book Larry gave me to read on my trip to Moscow, St. Petersburg, and then Paris. It tracks a post-civil war circus across that same journey. The quote is an epitaph for the circus leader. When I read it, I thought immediately of David.

He loved the dance floor, with a good looking lady on his arm. He was smooth and graceful. I witnessed a few softshoes he did in meetings, also smoothly done.

He gave pleasure with a smile, a greeting, a joke, or a hug. He knew everyone by name, and always asked after their family or hobby or job. Traveling was a pleasure we shared, both taking trips together and telling stories. He loved planning travel and finding deals. I went to Hawaii on one of those deals.

Now he is dead. That's hard for me to imagine. When I left Huntsville, he was planning Linda's trip to meet me in Moscow, St. Petersburg, and then Paris. He was having a great time wheeling and dealing, finding the best fares, and talking about hotels, places to see and things to do. It is impossible to imagine that he is dead.

I want more dancing!

Anne Bauer

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We were at the beginning of a month in London when we got the word about David's passing, which gave the news a surreal aspect. I couldn't quite shake the feeling that it would be true only as long as we were in England, and when we returned home all would be right again. Alas. We all looked up to David because he exemplified the qualities we wished to see in ourselves. I was counting on him to lead those of us in his Mensa family into old age, showing us how it could be done with charm, grace, and good humor. Now we're on our own. The world is a poorer place.

Teresa Fisher

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This is an old story. I was very involved with the tale, but didn’t know that it was an adventure until much later when I heard David Mann’s version. It involved travel with some of my favorite people to an RG. It also involves an old airplane, and duct tape. For me, life doesn’t get much better than that.

David was an instrument rated pilot, who flew recreationally. Around 20 years ago he’d occasionally load a well used rental Piper Cherokee 6 with friends and fly off to some exotic city for a weekend of fun and frolic at an RG. I was lucky enough to take part in some of these trips. It all worked quite well, with David serving as pilot, Cathy Funston serving as Co-Pilot and navigator. I became the "booking agent" for several trips, in charge of filling seats with cute young female Mensa members and my own sorry ass. I also got to help with handling luggage, cleaning bird nests out of the engine compartment before flight, and ensuring a proper supply of mechanical necessities such as paper clips and duct tape. I had worked as an apprentice aircraft mechanic so I really did know how to clean caterpillars out of the pitot tube and other handy stuff.

On this particular trip we had a cabin filled with David, Cathy, Teresa Graves (now Maxwell), and myself. We all worked on Redstone Arsenal, for either NASA or the Army. It was a short trip from work to the Redstone Flying Club facility, located at the Redstone Airfield. As soon as we could all escape work we met at the field and commenced loading the old Piper, looking forward to a quick trip to Cincinnati for their RG. The weather was a little cool and cloudy on the way up, but not bad enough to cause us any concern. We had great confidence in the skills of our pilot, and the Cherokee had never let us down.

After we had attained our cruising altitude and everybody was settling in I changed in to my stewardess uniform. Nothing kinky, but you do have to learn to be versatile when travelling by light plane. In my quest to provide our crew and passengers with the comfort that they deserved, I crawled back to the back and grabbed a large roll of duct tape out of my backpack. The passenger cabin of the Cherokee could get a little cool at altitude, due to the slight decomposition of the weather-stripping around the passenger door into the aft cabin. The perfect fix for the problem was duct tape, liberally applied to the crack between the door and cabin.

We had, by this time, been flying for an hour or so. The weather had indeed "socked in", and David was flying on instruments. No sweat. The plane was well equipped, and David was a capable and properly rated pilot. He was also, as I found out later, in a state of "extreme alertness". As a passenger I was blissfully unaware of this. I knew that the ground was still down there somewhere and trusted David would find it when he was supposed to, and not a minute before. He was being worried about ice forming on the wings, in the carburetor, bad altimeters, and all that other pilot stuff.

I now had a big old roll of duct tape in my hands and set about my task. All males, and most females, know how satisfying it is to grab the end of the roll of tape with one hand, the roll itself with the other hand, and rip off about 4 feet of natures perfect tape. Nothing else quite feels the same, and few things sound the same. One of the few things that does sound the same, or so we can easily imagine, is a Piper Cherokee 6 wing as it peels away from the rest of the plane.

It turns out that David, who was very alert and listening for the slightest hint of a problem, was pretty sure that he’d heard a wing parting company with the rest of our plane. He began immediately looking in all directions at once to determine just exactly which wing was now flying to a different destination. Cathy, noticing his excited state, and also having heard the noise, was also looking around. She spotted me in the back seat playing with a large hunk of tape and the doorjamb. Figuring out immediately that the cause of the horrible ripping noise was the stewardess playing with a roll of duct tape and not the wing, she set about to inform our pilot.

David later recounted that as his life was flashing before his eyes, and he was searching for the problem that had caused the horrible noise, "the woman I loved punched me on the leg, got my attention, looked into my eyes and said "DUCT TAPE". He immediately began searching again for the problem, sure that the woman was totally crazy and babbling incoherent nonsense. Cathy grabbed his head, turned him around to see what I was doing, and repeated "DUCT TAPE". David finally figured out what had happened, swallowed his heart, and continued the trip.

I remained totally unaware of any trouble I had caused until much later. David took great delight in telling me what had happened.

Rob Glover

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It always amused me that David Mann came through Atlanta on business so often. I teased him about NASA's sense of direction -- flying him east from Huntsville when they wanted him to go west to Houston. In reality, airline schedules dictated his odd travel path.

For several years I lived and worked a fairly short drive from the Atlanta airport, so when he knew he was going to have a layover here, he'd give me a call. "Hi there, Good Lookin'," that wonderful voice would purr in my ear. "Can I buy you a drink at the airport?" If I possibly could, I arranged to take a long lunch during his layover, and I went to the airport for a hug and a visit.

David was a hoot — lively, witty, charming, interested in everything — so those meetings were fun. The only exception I remember was in the winter of 1986. After the Challenger disaster, NASA's many tracking stations sent their telemetry tapes to the Goddard Space Flight Center in Maryland. Goddard sorted the tapes according to which systems the data represented, then sent them back out to the facilities assigned to analyze those systems. The folks at Huntsville were responsible for analyzing the engines, so David flew up to Goddard to collect the telemetry tapes relating to engine function. When I met him at the gate in Atlanta on his way home, he was carrying a 40-lb. box of precious data. As important as those tapes were to NASA, they were at least that important to David personally. He knew the Challenger crew, and he was on a mission to find out what caused their deaths. NASA had told him to keep his hands on the box at all times; David did better. He carried the box on his shoulder from his arrival gate across two concourses to his departure gate, and he held the box on his lap the whole time we waited for his departing flight to board. Usually we sat in one of the airport concession stands. On that occasion, we sat at the gate so he could leap on his plane to Huntsville as soon as boarding began. David was intensely focused, but he wasn't solemn. He was buoyant. He was so relieved to have something he could do.

He put a premium on doing. He seldom sat still. (If he tried to, his leg bounced.) He served in the Army Reserves. He was active in Jaycees until he aged out of the organization. He ran for mayor in New Hope, AL, his home town. He flew planes, briefly took up scuba diving, and loved to travel. All of this, of course, was on top of his NASA duties and his Mensa activities.

David wasn't a liar, but he didn't let the truth get between him and the end he wanted to achieve. One weekend a bunch of us rented a cabin at Cloudland Canyon State Park in northwest Georgia. Shortly after breakfast on Saturday morning, we started smelling smoke, then seeing ash in the air, then hearing from hikers that there was a forest fire in the canyon. David, Cathy Funston and I drove to the ranger station and reported the fire.. When the fire truck came roaring up, David told the firefighters that he "worked with" the New Hope Volunteer Fire Department and offered his services to help fight the fire. Now, strictly speaking, what he said was true. A few weeks earlier, David's mother had burned some leaves in her back yard, which abutted David's, and set the yard on fire. David had "worked with" the fire department to put out the fire in his own back yard. So he gave the Cloudland Canyon firefighters a false impression that he had some real training, accepted a mattock from them and raced down to help fight the fire in the canyon. Naturally, Cathy and I went along. The firefighters and David split into two teams to cut firebreaks down the side of the canyon, trying to keep the fire from spreading across the canyon wall. They guided the fire down the canyon to a trail, which Cathy and I were supposed to patrol to stop the fire. (" 'So, how did you spend your holiday weekend, Cathy?' 'Oh, I raked a state park,' " Cathy muttered to herself as we swept leaves off the trail with wet towels and a rake and stamped out little patches of fire that tried to jump the trail.) Hours later, we were all hot, exhausted and coughing, and Cathy and I had burned holes in our tennis shoes. It wasn't the way we intended to spend our weekend. But David was happy because he got to fight the fire.*

He built his own house, and what a work of love it was. When he began, the house was cinderblock, three tiny bedrooms and one bath. First he added a second story over the garage for a big bedroom. Then he built a giant bathroom. Then he closed in the garage and built a new one in front of it. Then two stories worth of living space over the new garage. By the time of his death, the house had a kitchen, bedroom, and living and dining area on the ground floor; a second kitchen, master bedroom, office and sitting room on the second floor; and another bedroom and office on the third floor. He did nearly all of the work himself or with the help of friends. His plans were always fluid; if someone suggested a door or staircase might go better here than there, David cheerfully moved it. He built the house to last, though. A fervent believer in redundant engineering, David never used 1" lumber if he could use 2"; if the standard was one nail every six inches, David drove a nail every three inches.

One of my favorite memories of David is a moment I never saw. Early on in the house-building, he made two terrible mistakes: he invited a bunch of us over to spend a weekend working on the house (I believe that might have been the giant bathroom project), and he let slip that he hated the Disney song "It's a Small World" because once the song got in his head, he couldn't get rid of it. Steve Porter went right out and bought about a dozen little music boxes that played "It's a Small World." Steve drilled a little hole in each music box so he could insert a pin that would block the drum from turning. He wound up the music boxes and put the pins in, with strings tied to the pins. When you pulled a string, it would yank the pin out of a music box, the drum would turn and the music box would play. While we were there for the construction weekend, I feigned interest in the fruit trees David had planted in his yard that spring. David obligingly took me on a long tour of the yard, and Steve and the others hid the music boxes all over the house. Open a drawer, try to use the washing machine, move a book — music! They put a couple in places David was certain to find right away, and sure enough, he did. He loved teasing and being teased, so he got a kick out of the joke. Then he wanted to know how many music boxes we had hidden. "Somewhere between two and 30," Steve told him, unhelpfully. It took many months for David to find them all, especially since Cathy, who lived with him in those days, kept sneaking them out of his stash and hiding them again. (After awhile, David took to smashing them with a hammer when he found them.) The one that took David the longest to find, and gave all of us the most satisfaction, was the one they taped to the back of the bathroom door. David had the door propped against the garage wall; Steve knew the door would be one of the last things he installed. Steve tied a really long string to the pin and taped the string to the wall so that the music box wouldn't be activated until David had hauled the heavy door out into the middle of the garage. The music box would be out of David's reach, behind the door, and David wouldn't have any place to set the door. When David finally found that one, he went straight to the phone to call Steve. I'll leave you to guess what he called Steve.

David was born and raised a gentleman. He always tried to put others at ease. He hated confrontation and did nearly anything to avoid a situation where he might have to look like the bad guy or tell someone something they didn't want to hear. He loved women — their company, their conversation, and sensual and sexual contact with them. He was a flirt and a rogue. He had a tremendous sense of humor and appreciated anything funny, from jokes to witty remarks to slapstick to the absurd. He liked being in the limelight and wasn't above publicly claiming a little more credit than he might have been due. He was a good friend, and he loved his mama and brother and sisters. He did what he wanted to do in life, and on the whole, he did it gracefully and successfully. He died the same way, at an AG and in the arms of his wife, Linda.

Who would have imagined that David Mann would turn out not to be Y2K compliant? He was only 55. He had such energy, such optimism, that I expected him to see the next century.

I hope what they say about the Atlanta airport is correct. If it is, maybe one day I'll pick up the phone and hear his voice again. "Hi there, Good Lookin'. I've got a layover. Can I buy you a drink at the airport?"

Bambi Maxwell

*Oscar Zeiger and Bob Dyke want you to know that after the fire was out, they took over from us to watch the smoldering forest and put out little hot spots that occasionally flared up. They claim credit for having saved the chemical factory and the orphanage. There's no chemical plant or orphanage anywhere near Cloudland Canyon, but that doesn't change their story.

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So where do you even start when you are writing something about David? Would it be with the stories generated with/by his Mensa friends, such as the duck tape in the plane, or "It’s a small World" being his favorite song, or being one of the creators of the Huntsville RG and the Hugging Contests, the great job he always did as emcee, reading the Grits contest winners in his wonderful southern voice, or all the Mensa offices he held and convinced other people to hold?

Or would it be about his love of travel and the stories he always brought back (like leaving folks on the train in Europe), his fine grasp of the German language ("I’m a large duck in blue socks"), helping friends and co-workers get great rates, trying desperately to get friends and coworkers to take more trips, his helpful travel hints (take old underwear and throw it away after wearing & take only what you can carry by yourself), or the fact that he managed to get Linda to go on a trip to Europe with him — without ever telling her they were going overseas?

Or would it be the stories about his house, the before and after, the hideous kitchen carpet he loved, the New Hope School of Chainsaw Carpentry, the pneumatic nail gun (I love that thing!), the house that was ‘plumbed’ with pressured air so that you could run the nail gun anywhere, the number of nails that are in that house (don’t worry about tornadoes — worry about strong magnetic storms), the real-time redesign committee, falling off the roof, falling off the roof again, his blue period (when his skin was the same color as the stain on his house), the fun of ‘building weekends’, the five year contract that he & Linda had for getting the house done, or how gorgeous that house looks now?

Or would it be better to talk about how he always seemed to get the better of me, talking me into being LocSec by telling me that the bylaws said I was next in line — when in fact he hadn’t seen a copy of the bylaws in years (and I wasn’t next in line), or how when I applied for a contractor job with NASA he calmly told me that they had asked him for a recommendation and he told them that " he’d never personally seen my passed out drunk on the floor, but that he hadn’t known me for all that long", or how when I got married he pulled out 3x5 cards at the rehearsal dinner to take notes on as he got "the scoop" on me from all my old high school and college friends, or how he tried to worry me by ‘assuring’ me that he’d show up at my wedding half and hour late?

Or would it be better to write about some of his opinions and comments like the North Alabama Cat Hockey verses Aunt Granny’s Tobacco Spitting and Cat Kicking contests, or how he called his method of stacking items high on any flat surface "spatial indexing", or his love of Macintoshes and his efforts to convert the world from PCs to Macs, or how he said that women shouldn’t wear jewelry because "it makes them look old", or the way he always seemed to get a post card from the farthest spot when there were balloon releases?

I really don’t know where to begin, much less where to end. If you don’t already know about any of the above mentioned items, you should certainly ask someone who knew him — because there will be a great story involved, there always was and always will be.

Valeta Glover

I met David in June of 1979, and received my first Mensa hug from him. I have had the privilege of spending a lot of time with him over the last 20 years, and feel indescribable sorrow. This essay is not about me, though, it’s about David, and what he did for Mensa.

David joined Mensa in 1977. He became active in the North Alabama Mensa group, and was soon holding local offices. He was elected RVC (Regional Vice Chairman) and held that position through most of the 1980’s. In 1993 he was elected Second Vice Chairman of American Mensa. He was later again elected RVC. Even after he was no longer on the AMC, he was often asked to be a presenter at workshops for local group leaders.

David was RVC during a time of growth in Mensa. Because he was a private pilot and had the use of a plane, he was able to not only attend RG’s all over the region, but to visit all local groups and get to know the active members personally. He had charisma, knowledge, humor, and people-handling skills; his leadership shaped Southeastern Mensa into the strong region it is today. There have been years when this region was the only one which had a net gain membership. But the best thing he taught, by example, is that we’re happy to be together. Many Mensans use the word family to describe the friends they have made through Mensa, but I hear that word more often, and more heartfelt, in the southeast than anywhere else I’ve been.

When the news was spread at the AG that David had died that morning, the shock was tremendous. This was followed by many friends hugging friends, sharing their grief. My brother Charlie pointed out that David had helped make hugging an official greeting in Mensa, and now we were hugging because of him.

I asked Cathy Funston to tell me the story again of how the Hugging Contest started. She and David went to an RG in New Orleans, in 1978. They took with them a local member, Fran Beckett, who was so shy it was painful to watch her in a social setting. So when they introduced her to Marvin Grosswirth, David told Fran that it’s a long-standing tradition in Mensa that when you meet someone, you give them a hug. This was total fiction, of course. But Marvin, bright man that he was, was not about to turn down a hug from a sweet young thing. As a matter of fact, he told her the first hug was good, but he thought they could do better, so they had another.

Fran did eventually figure out that this "long-standing tradition" was just for her benefit, but on the long drive home she commented that after you’ve hugged someone you just naturally stand and chat with them a while. So as they drove and planned the first Alabama RG, they decided that having a Hugging Contest would encourage people to hug each other, even if they were not friends yet. There would be secret judges in the crowd, so you’d want to hug as many people as possible during the weekend in hopes of getting a Hugging Award. This would be a sure-fire ice-breaker. It worked, and it spread. RG’s in the south were proliferating in the 1980’s, and most of them had hugging contests. Even if they didn’t, you were always hugging friends, old and new. That sense of family was easy to feel, and easy to believe.

Now that family is in mourning. We have suddenly lost one of our best and brightest. As we recover from the shock and move through the stages of grief, I have noticed one reaction showing up in many people. Every time a friend moves on to the "EG" (Eternal Gathering), we are reminded that we never know when it’s our last chance to tell someone we love them. In the past week, throughout Mensadom, there have been many calls and e-mails to do just that. This is strengthening our bonds of friendship, and reminding us what we like about Mensa: the people. Even as he leaves us, David inspires good in the group. His legacy lives on.

Eileen Steinhice

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We walk past the open windows

every day

never noticing the bluer sky

but David flew out, away

on wings of platinum and heart

elated in a great and sudden escape

We look back, searching for reasons

some bread-crumb trail

but the only trail left is starlight and truth

smiles he left behind

so many memories in us

difficult to understand from this

vantage point

We will walk on past many

open windows

until we find our own, as David did

B. Kim Meyer

(7/16/00)

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Lest it be thought of him that he was a saint and without worldly fault, David was what we fondly refer to as a "Mac bigot". He simply could not fathom why on earth anyone would chose to go over to the dark side, ie any flavor of Windows/Intel computer. He was serious enough in this to buy the newest model of IMac for himself when it came out and trickle down the old versions to several of the relatives. He was also wont to pay me hard cash to refurbish older excess Macs that he then gave away as gifts to people who would otherwise succumb to the lure of Wintel.

Apple computer has lost a true zealot, and tell me, can Bill Gates account for his whereabouts the weekend of the Mensa AG?

Unka Lar, himself just a mite biased toward that fruity platform.

Mensa has lost its most eloquent and gracious ambassador, and we have lost a dear friend. In the early morning, on the last day of the Philadelphia AG, David Mann suffered a massive heart attack. Paramedics were called in, and he was rushed to a hospital, but attempts to revive him were unsuccessful.

David represented the best of what Mensa can be. I first met him at the Houston AG. This tall, handsome guy in a white hat shook my hand and complimented me on my western outfit. Then he paused, looked me in the eye, appeared very serious and said "And I just want to thank you." Then he flashed that famous grin and continued to move around the Hospitality Suite, distributing handshakes, hugs, and greetings. He had that knack of making everyone feel special. You can be sure that the next time we met, I traded up from a handshake to a hug. He was also great with the press. Whenever a challenging interview was expected, David was the preferred representative. How could any reporter describe us as geeks or nerds after meeting our very own Mensa rocket scientist with the charming smile and delicious Southern accent?

I will remember the last time I saw David too–late Saturday night after the Formal Dinner and Ball. Don and I were chatting with him and his wife, Linda, about costumes and where to get the best patterns. It had been a great AG. We were looking forward to dinner with them the end of July. (He had a business trip that would bring them to Southern California.) We said "good night" and they headed for the elevator. The next morning, as we came down the same elevator, we learned that David was gone. That final brunch turned from one of celebration, to one of mourning. The hugs were accompanied by sobs instead of smiles as hundreds of friends grieved his passing. I still cannot believe that he is gone. He was so full of the joy of life–and he will live on in the hearts and memories of all who were privileged to know him.

Anyone who would like to contribute to his memorial scholarship fund can send a check to MERF–David Mann Scholarship, 1229 Corporate Drive, Arlington, TX, 76006. And don’t forget to raise a glass in his memory at the next AG.

Lynda Kay

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I have known David Mann for many years and knew him mostly for his relaxed speaking manner and his wit. When speaking before a large group he would frequently start his remarks by saying, "Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking..." and that would get a big laugh because he was an excellent public speaker.

At the Saturday evening banquet at the 1987 AG in Dallas, David was the MC. A table was set up on the stage for all of the National Officers. As I was InterLoc Editor at the time, I was included in that "In crowd" but no one told me, so there was one vacant chair on the stage. Part way through the meal someone informed me of the protocol but I didn't want to leave my table as I had already started eating. So David Mann called the attention of the group and announced, "The empty chair at the end of the table is for the InterLoc Editor but we neglected to invite him so we are designating it, "The Ted Elzinga Memorial Chair."

He had a way of making the best of a delicate situation.

Ted Elzinga

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I had always maintained that we had never had a fatality at a Mensa gathering. I guess that record is now broken. I had known David Mann for 20+ years (longer than I've known my husband); and I am heart broken to learn of his passing. He was a great Mensan and a dear friend. He had something of a playboy image in our younger days. While he was a lot of fun, he was also a hard worker, and he knew how to keep a cool, level head in the face of disaster. He could take the bull by the horns and do a nasty job, when he had to. But if you have to go, that is indeed the way to do it–a class act right to the very end. I will miss him deeply. Our sympathies to his widow Linda and the Huntsville group.

E. Bunny Warsh

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I was devastated by the passing of David Mann, at the AG. I was honored to have known and worked with him.

We've known each other for at least eleven years, but due to the distance (he lived in Alabama), weren't close. But he was one of the best in Mensa. He was respected and loved by all, and was indeed one of the best, a true southern gentleman.

He was the only experienced RVC on the AMC when I was first elected Region 9 RVC in 1989. As such, he was the leader of the RVC caucus and mentor to all eight new RVCs (including Bob Beatty and Bob Cox). He also had been Second Vice Chairman.

In spite of the mood of the morning on Sunday, it helped to have Mensa friends there to support each other. Didn’t make it bearable, or even make any sense of it, but did help. I guess that’s what family is for.

My fondest memory will be that of the "Mensa Show" on Friday night.

This was the periodic Dan Gilmore collection of skits. David and I, among others, were in one called "The Wizard of Owlz", first performed at the RG of that name in 1989. It refers to a fictional AG in Oz in 1939.

Near the end, David throws a cup of water on me, as I am leching on Dorothy. I say, "Was that beer?"

David is supposed to say, "No".

I then say "Was it wine?"

He says, "No, it was water."

I then say something like, "You fool!! I’m a member of the AMC! I’ll sober up! Oh, what a world!!" And collapse.

Instead, David answered my question "Was that beer?" with "Used to be!" Brought down the house. Totally broke up both Dan Gilmore and me. It was a good thing the laughter lasted so long, I couldn’t continue either. It will remain in my memory as a classic and pure David.

We’ll see him again at that great AG in the sky....

Russ Bakke

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"Remembering David Mann" originally printed in August, 2000 issue of i.e., the newsletter of Inland Empire Mensa, Don Beatty & Lynda Kay, Editors.

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David was perhaps the most universally liked/loved person in Mensa. His trait of seeing only the good side of people and his southern gentleman character made it impossible to dislike him. He made friends wherever he went. Always willing to help in any way he could, be it arranging for special tours of NASA facilities at Huntsville, opening his home to visitors, speaking or being emcee at a gathering, doing press interviews, sharing his expertise in public relations at a Local Officer Training weekend, or working in the hospitality suite at a gathering. He was always actively looking for ways to help others. He did not wait to be asked but offered at every opportunity Just the night before he died he was offering my daughter that he would be glad to help my 10-year-old grandson get to Space Camp and even offered to put them up in his home.

I would guess his favorite role in Mensa was as a hugging judge. He was the winner of many hugging contests and many a time I saw Mensans lining up to hug him- He also was a storyteller with few equals, telling tales of his adventures in house building and his work at NASA. His voice, with that "sugar would not melt in his mouth" southern drawl, was almost mesmerizing. When he started to speak others would quiet down to listen to what they knew would be interesting, fumy, or both. Never given to loud speech he commanded attention by virtue of content and style, not volume. In short he was a "people person" and all that conveys.

A list of his Mensa accomplishments includes:

RVC region 5 - 7/79-6/83;

2nd Vice Chairman - 7/83-6/85;

RVC region 5 - 7/87-12/89;

One of the founders of the Huntsville RG;

Emcee of countless AG and RGs

We normally don't get to choose our place, method, and time of death and while I am sure the time of David's death was not his choice; the place and method might have met his aim. He died on a Sunday morning at a great AG in his room in his beloved wife's arms and quickly without much pain. He had spent the night before looking his distinguished self dressed in a tux (an item many think was invented for him to wear) surrounded by a thousand friends, talking about his upcoming retirement from NASA, planning with Liz and I his and Linda's trip to Singapore, and then dancing (which he so loved to do) the night away with his lovely wife Linda. He was happy, among his best friends, doing what he loved to do, sharing his fife with Linda (their 8th anniversary would have been Monday the day after his death), looking forward to the future, and enjoying all that life had brought him.

I am sure all who knew David Mann will not ever forget him.

We will miss him at every gathering and remember our last contact with him His death was much much too soon but in retrospect I can only wish such a gentle, peaceful parting for myself or any man. Please contribute to the MERF scholarship in his name to honor him.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Just in case somebody puts together a "memories book". This is the sort of thing that goes through my head ...

... and an order of bacon, burnt -- write that down B-U-R-N-T, burnt.

... picking blueberries for pancakes at Cheaha

Glow in the dark toys, glasses, etc.

Everything he built was double-engineered. (that's not quite the right word for it)

The end of his speech at the 1983 (I believe) Huntsville RG has really stuck with me: "Most of the people in this world that I love are in this room right now"

He would call me at the office and say in his deepest rumbling voice: "Per FAA regulations, this is David Mann reporting that I have landed at Memphis International Airport en route to Houston"

David was the first recipient of the spontaneous napkin wrap, which we subsequently awarded to other worthy speakers.

"The Dave Club"

Body-surfing, the earth ball, and other new games

David's management style: "If it ain't broke, don't fix it"

From David's kudzu speech: ... doesn't need any fertilizer, but if you must do something for it, pour used motor oil on it so that the tendrils will have less friction as they race along the ground ...

I remember David reading those Grits Awards in the early years. I have a copy of "The Alabama RG Compendium of Grits: A Grit Memory Book sponsored by the Confederate Uprising and Grits Appreciation Weekend" published August 1987, Editors: C.D. Funston and David Mann

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The names in this book really bring back the days that David helped create.

Some of these people were family, others were people whose lives we touched. Some are really "where are they now??"

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Ken Hagar 7/18/2000

My first contact with David Mann was during the preparations for Spacelab 1.

Ancient though I am, I was but a wee tad at the time, having come aboard the Shuttle Program in JSC Ground Systems for STS-7 (Yes, Virginia, we used to number the flights in a rational way.) Sally Ride had rode, I had studied, and we were giants among ground controllers in those days (or at least legends in our own minds.)

The POCC (Payload Operations Control Center) was at JSC/MCC (Johnson Space Center/Mission Control Center) in those days, and I was assigned as one of the Data Integration sections representatives to execute Spacelab 1 Operations in a position called POCC Data. We had all studied Shuttle and Spacelab data systems, worked with the MODCOMPS (you’re really old if you remember MODCOMPS) to develop command and telemetry displays, and in general done a lot of background prep work in a short time to get ready for STS-9, a.k.a. Spacelab 1.

Some of my senior team members had traveled to MSFC (Marshall Space Flight Center) to work with MSFC personnel that were the prime payloads interfaces on Spacelab 1. Names like Bill Kilpatrick, Ann McNair, Nate Boclair, Jack Bullman, and yes, David Mann were bandied around.

So, in the course of events, the day had arrived for the occurrence of what was referred to as Mission Manager Testing.

Lo and behold, a voice as though the Archangel Michael (or David?) or even the Supreme Deity Himself had descended to bless our earthly mundane little activity came over the loops and began directing testing of data systems. The Golden Voice of the Mission Manager Representative was among us, and things would never be the same again. Smooth, mellifluous, golden, warm honey on hot butter — the sound of David’s Voice, especially when he was concentrating on working it, was enough to charm the Eagles from the Sky, and the Bears from the Forest (regardless of what they were doing). In the weeks to come, though there were several Test Conductors, none seemed able to so work the system, and get so much done as David Mann. I knew at the time, as I know now, that his ability to wield his Voice as a fine, focused, powerful instrument was one of the major reasons for his success. Yes, David was technically proficient, as were others, but no one else had the Voice.

It was a few years, and much water under the Damn until I realized that David Mann was merely mortal, and capable of spouting great BS in the same golden Voice, but that’s another story.

He was an inspiration to many, a role model to most, and always a warm caring person. One of the Knights of Arthur, reincarnated into modern times.

But most of all, he was my Friend, and I miss him.

David, wherever you are, I’m sure they’re admiring the Voice, as we are missing it.

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What I remember best about David was his wit - true intellect, humor, and insight to people. I first met him about 7 years ago, and until earlier this year, we were always in separate directorates. But David had such keen insight that he always asked intelligent questions about what I was working on, knew right where a project was on its schedule, and usually managed an amusing anecdote on the work as well. He always seemed to be planning a trip and spoke so well of his wife Linda that I felt I knew her before we ever met. He admired Larry Bauer's work and always spoke highly of him, as well as all his coworkers - something that to me was truly inspiring in a manager. He was a true southern gentleman - yet with a head for space flight, a golden way with people, and a flair for fun. The message he'd left on his board at work truly fit him to a tee: "You don't stop playing because you get old. You get old because you stop playing." I feel truly blessed because I knew him.

Ramona O. Cummings

NASA Marshall Space Flight Center

FD33 Payload Systems Group

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David Mann has gone on

without us.

How can that be?

For David was David:

Steady, deep throated,

a chooser

of well-metered phrasing

to emphasize

a dry wit,

followed by a kind,

measured smile,

with intellectual watchfulness --

a catalyst

for calm generosity.

David has left

the building,

followed by a thunderclap.

We wince

and hold our ears.

(7/9/00)

Are our lives Then continue

a folder full of the world? to expand the dossier,

Or lay we our limitations the experiential tome

on life’s doorstep, that is existence,

at the threshold And know

of this finite your soul’s

room of existence? desire:

Turn around. To fill your folder

Look out full of the world --

the door and in the most

into the boundless realm noble ways

of your soul. (as infinity awaits) --

do it now.

(7/12/00)