Dave Price stepped away on Christmas Eve, 2025, after a long, profanity-laden battle with Alzheimer’s.

That’s how we both figured this obituary should start, twelve years ago, when he was diagnosed—which was already six years after he suspected it. But he lasted way past the profanity, and even past the ability to speak at all. Yet he never stopped shining through.

Dave was the Spam King. The Christmas Butter Fairy. The Human Trumpet, the original Friend of Pootie! He made jokes, made mistakes, made amends, made dinner, and made a home. A freakishly strong and able man, and a hard worker, he would do anything for anyone, friend or stranger, especially if he could manage it without drawing attention to himself. Every one of us, from the three-hundred-pound bricklayer to the half-ounce chickadee, was his “little buddy.” He was observant, generous, a smart-ass and a heavy tipper, and always looked for ways he could help someone. Dave absolutely was going to take care of you—but he’d salt it with just enough dickishness to deflect sainthood. He was the master of stealth kindness. Well past the time we could know what he was thinking, he kept that grace alive. Right up to the gift of his final minute.

Dave was born December 14th, 1950, in Portland, Oregon, and immediately fitted with eyeglasses after he was caught nursing the dog. He went to Alameda Grade School where he swears he only punched out the guys who had it coming; he graduated from Grant High School in 1969 and went to Portland State University, where he was expected to go into engineering. Instead, he became a hod carrier for Bromley Masonry and C H Murphy. “Hi. My name’s Dave,” he’d introduce himself. “I lift heavy things.”

Dave had no plans for an afterlife, but if there is a surprise party for him somewhere, he will contribute a joyful and jazzy version of “When The Saints Go Marching In” on lip trumpet, and then make sure everyone has plenty to eat.

But hear this: If homemade candy shows up on your doorstep, or your overdue utility bill is suddenly paid off, or the big mess in your yard mysteriously disappears, you have been visited by the Ghost of Dave. Go thou, and do likewise!

Dave proudly uncled Sara Jacobs, Kevin Jacobs, Mika Jacobs, Michael Montag, Andrea Greene Montag, Qalu Montag, Simon Montag, and Elizabeth Brewster, all of whom he trusts will behave and be wonderful; and leaves behind his amazed and grateful wife Murr Brewster, whom he could not be prevented from calling “the little woman.”

Will she miss the culinary triumph he called “All the bacon you ever really wanted?” Yes. Will she miss those sudden-onset renditions of “I love you truly” sung in an ear-shredding yet melodious falsetto with the power to strip paint? Oh yes. Does she miss that big goofball?

God, yes.

 

 

For more photos, and audio, please visit my substack.