My dad passed away on June 25, 2026, surrounded by his three adult kids. He was 72. He was throughout his life many things; a lawyer, a city councilman, a retired state official, an avid cyclist, a devoted dog owner, and a larger-than-life presence in every room he ever walked into. He was gregarious and generous. He was funny. He was a good cook. He was known to friends as “Buyin’ Bryan” for his habit of always picking up the check.
He was not a nudist. At least, he never professed to be one. But I think he made me one.
My dad was constitutionally opposed to blind compliance. He didn’t follow rules he couldn’t find the value of. He followed them when they made sense and questioned them loudly when they didn’t. He taught his kids, by example more than instruction, that social norms are often arbitrary, that conformity is usually laziness dressed up as virtue, and that there is nothing more worth protecting than your own sense of self. He was fiercely proud of his uniqueness. And crucially, he never used any of that as cover for dishonesty. He wasn’t a cheater. His skepticism of authority came from a genuine belief in fairness, not from a desire to be exempt from it.
Despite a penchant for flouting authority, he was an authority, never an anarchist. He was a lawyer. A city councilman. A state official for 32 years. He believed in systems and institutions, and partook in good faith in the slow and sometimes maddening work of changing things from the inside. His skepticism wasn’t about tearing systems down. It was about holding them accountable and using them for the people they were supposed to serve.
I think about that a lot in the context of how I engage with nudism, not just as a writer, publisher, but as an advocate who believes in working through legitimate channels even when the progress is slow. I don’t think I arrived at that approach on my own; he modeled it.
He was also, I should admit in the interest of historical accuracy, not entirely opposed to a little social nudity in his younger days. I’ll just leave it at that.
Ever since I started Planet Nude in 2023, he read it. My dad was politically conservative in his older years, and I suspect he didn’t always agree with my theses. I can get pretty progressive in my views, and he knew it. But he showed up for the writing. Every email. He engaged with it, asked about it, took pride in it. He may have raised an eyebrow at some of my takes, but he never missed one. I think he looked forward to it as a way to get me talking with him about something or anything.
Naturism, at its core, asks you to look at one of the most deeply ingrained social rules we have—the idea that the unclothed human body is inherently shameful—and question whether it holds up. For most people, that question never gets asked. The norm is so ambient, so old, so reflexively enforced that it doesn’t even register as a choice. Some naturists might say they were predisposed to question clothing norms from birth, but I don’t believe that’s true for me. I believe he gave me the habit of examining assumptions before accepting them. Not because he ever said anything about nudism or clothing at all, but because he modeled a way of moving through the world that treated social convention as something to be scrutinized rather than automatically obeyed; a habit of resisting certainly-held-absurdities. When I eventually encountered naturism as an adult, I think the philosophical groundwork was already there for me to align with its ideas.
My dad had a rough few years at the end, with medical issues and hospital stays and old injuries compounding on him, but he met all of it on his own terms, with more humor and optimism than the situation probably warranted. I moved in with my family to be his caretaker the last couple of years, and I’m glad I got to do that for him. It let us grow a new bond, one between two adults instead of a parent and a kid, and it let him build a real relationship with his grandson. It also gave him a surprising amount of optimism about the future, despite his increasing challenges. In the end, he died the way he lived, still making plans.
That’s the man. I’ll miss him every day. What I want to carry forward from him is to question what deserves to be questioned, work within the systems worth working in, be generous, be honest, show up with good humor.
I’m writing this from his house, my home, on the Independence Day. That was my dad’s holiday. He always hosted here every year, and he’d already started making plans for this year, calling family and putting it out there, when he went into the hospital for the last time. It is for him, truly, that his family is together for this day. He’d be mad that he didn’t make the party. But of course, he did. 🪐
My condolences. A few years ago, when I was still hauling RVs all over the country, I stopped and walked around the Little Big Horn battlefield (just south of Billings, MT). That battle happened on June 25, 1876, and I thought it might be cool to bring the family and visit the battle site on the 150th anniversary. That would have been June 25, 2026, but plans changed. We wound up taking a trip to Southern California the week of June 16th, my thoughts of Little Big Horn forgotten. Seeing the date of your father’s passing made me remember that.
Evan, What a lovely expression of your love for your Dad. I very much appreciated your shared finger gestures to both peace and getting on with life. He clearly provided you with many lessons and ways to consider improving situations. You have done well with Planet Nude and it is great to learn that he was one of your regular readers and proud of your endeavors. Thank you for sharing this personal story. In sympathy.