Sam Day was a precious man. He took his work seriously and himself lightly. In his devotion to truth and the common good, he outdid the overtly religious. He was unflinchingly faithful to the cause of disarmament and devoid of any ego that interfered with what needed to be done.

He was a most inclusive organizer, always updating Scott and I on the Vanunu campaign and asking us for feedback. Whenever I sought Sam's aide, I never felt the enormity of difference between our intellect and wisdom. He took every question seriously and listened earnestly.

Although Sam had eyeballed the dark sides of human existence, he was not morose or despairing. I loved his resilience, especially in the context of his blindness. During the two visits to our house, he found the piano and searched out melodies.

I've never seen anyone fundraise the way Sam did. He passed the hat with vaudevillian flair, putting "plants" in the audience to stimulate the crowd into generosity.

My last image of Sam was on the sidewalks of Washington D.C. We were a disorganized, ornery group, clustered around him trying to figure out which representatives each of us would lobby.

The cause, of course, was the release of Mordechai Vanunu. Once our plans were finally made, a crumply, legally blind Sam Day raised his cane in the air, in the opposite direction of the House and Senate buildings, and said, "Let's storm the halls of Congress!"

For Scott and I, Sam was a friend who helped us measure the present. We are going to miss his rallying cry. We are going to miss him.


Scott and Claire Schaeffer-Duffy