_{*Quick Summary: The author adds a personal eulogy as a memorial to friend and mentor Dan Lohwasser.*}

You never forget the people who believe in you. Just such a man died eight years ago today. Dan Lohwasser, an incredibly accomplished journalist, was a coworker of mine, being named Marketing Director at Hendrick Motorsports in the late 90’s. He had an open door policy that I regularly took advantage of. I was fascinated with English, effective writing, and marketing. I was not particularly talented at any of those things, but I loved learning about them. Dan didn’t mind talking about his job, and I sure didn’t mind listening.

The ability to use words to turn a negative into a positive was the most fascinating thing to me, and Dan was the best at it. He knew exactly how to say the right thing at the right time. Most importantly, I learned oftentimes it was about what you didn’t say. As someone who couldn’t keep his mouth shut back then, I was particularly fascinated with the how, when, and why of silence in PR and marketing.

Dan spent hours with me. Day after day. I don’t know why, but he was so incredibly generous with his time. Dan would graciously answer question after question, then as our friendship continued, he began to present me with situations from his past and ask how I’d handle them from a marketing or PR perspective. Eventually, I began to learn his style of spin, and would answer the questions to his satisfaction.

As the years progressed, Dan would ask me about real-time situations. Things he probably shouldn’t be telling me. New driver hires, crew chief changes, things like that. He would tell me about these things as they were happening, before anyone in the media knew. The level of trust that exhibited was incredible, and I never wanted to violate that. Then we’d discuss what should and should not be said in a press release. It was then I realized Dan believed in me. He trusted me. We discussed my schooling, or lack thereof, but that never bothered Dan. He knew my writing wasn’t perfect, but he saw something in me, and he told me so. That level of confidence from such an accomplished man was a real boost. It gave me hope I might one day do what he was doing, and we talked about the possibility of doing that when he retired.

I can’t tell you about Dan Lohwasser without mentioning this story – Dan got a very aggressive sort of cancer. I won’t talk much about it, because I know Dan wouldn’t. What I will talk about is during the time of one of his biggest surgeries, my mother also had surgery. She was in the hospital, and I was staying with her for a few days. I knew Dan was in the same hospital, and it was my intention to go see him before Mom left, but due to some complications, I didn’t feel right about leaving her. So there I sat, waiting with my mother, when I hear a faint, familiar voice. Dan and his wife Paula were headed into Mom’s room. Somehow, on the immediate backside of an incredibly tough surgery, and barely able to move, he walked all the way across the hospital because he’d heard my mom was there. The incredible resolve it took to do that became much more evident when I saw the look on Paula’s face. She was worried. Clearly Dan shouldn’t be doing what he was, but he was not about to be stopped. That gesture meant the world to me; more than I can ever express. It was typical Dan.

After he recovered from that surgery, things were good for a little while, before they went sharply downhill. Towards the end, Dan knew he was dying, yet he continued working. A long-time smoker, Dan had stopped smoking – At least most people thought he had. He would sneak out the back stairwell and up to another level to smoke in a semi-hidden area near the engine shop parking lot. I had seen him there a few times, but didn’t realize he was smoking as he hid it very well. One day I caught the motion of a cigarette going up to his lips and pulled my golf cart right up to him. Giving him my best bout of tough love, I practically yelled at him for smoking. That’s when he told me his prognosis and asked me if I thought a cigarette or two was going to make a difference. He said – “I don’t drink, I don’t do drugs, I don’t gamble, I don’t cheat on my wife. This is my one remaining vice, and you want to take it from me?” So, I did something I’m not particularly proud of – I became Dan’s lookout from there forward. He would call me when he wanted a cigarette, and I’d meet him at that stairwell. Then I’d look for anyone passing by, and tell him when there was somebody close. Once, an employee surprisingly came up behind us through the stairwell, and with ninja-like precision, Dan slipped the cigarette into my hand. He did it so fast it was like he’d practiced it. I did what I needed to do, and pretended to take a drag, then I apologized to Dan in front of the person. “I’m sorry Dan, I shouldn’t be smoking around you! I’m terrible!”, then I put the cigarette out and threw it away. The coworker walked off, and Dan said, “Thanks, for taking that from me, but did you have to throw it away?” Ha-ha-ha! Doggone it Dan!

I will always miss Dan Lohwasser. I think of him often. I hope one day to instill the sort of confidence and trust in another young person like he did for me. Thanks Dan!

Dan’s obituary: https://www.legacy.com/us/obituaries/charlotte/name/dan-lohwasser-obituary?id=15742319

A tribute from his Vietnam helicopter days: https://www.centaursinvietnam.org/Memoriam/imemoryLohwasserDanA.html