Alan Potash-Rest In Peace

I grew up in Omaha, Nebraska, my hometown. In 1985, there was a fire in the Old Market that displaced several people. I remember reading in the Omaha World-Herald about a man named Alan Potash who had lost everything in the fire. At the time, I was a single parent raising my son, Danny, and dating my sweet Susan—now my wife. I had an extra room in my house, empty and waiting for a purpose. After hearing Alan’s story, Susan and I decided to reach out to him, even though we didn’t know him, to see if he needed a place to stay while he got back on his feet.

From that moment, it was the four of us—Danny, Susan, me, and Alan. He became part of our lives in ways I could never have anticipated. Alan had an adventurous spirit and an unshakable determination. Now, let’s be honest—Alan struggled as a motorcycle rider. His instincts just didn’t seem to align with the two-wheel lifestyle. But that didn’t stop him. He’d always take the rear, a tiny dot in my rearview mirror, wobbling along and doing his best to keep up.

Somehow, no matter how sweaty or exhausted he was when we reached our destination, Alan would grin ear to ear and declare, “The best day of my life!” That was Alan. It wasn’t about skill or perfection; it was about being part of the experience. And despite his less-than-stellar riding ability, Alan never backed down. Rain, heat, or the twists and turns of the road—he was always there, undaunted and ready to go.

Alan lived boldly, and he always showed up. When we settled into motels on the road, the rest of us would swap stories about bikes and the usual guy talk. But Alan always brought a unique perspective, connecting everything back to life and deeper thoughts. Everyone loved Alan. His warmth, curiosity, and willingness to go the extra mile—sometimes quite literally—made him unforgettable. He was a giver—of his time, his attention, his care. He was a bridge builder and a teacher, someone who left a lasting impact on everyone who crossed his path.

What defined Alan most, though, was his love for his family. His twin sons, Ezra and Adeev, and his wife, Amy, were the world to him. He carried that love into everything he did, and it was clear in the way he lived his life—with passion, dedication, and an open heart. Alan built his life around his family and his community, leaving a legacy of connection and care.

When Alan passed, I struggled with the idea of speaking at his funeral. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get a word out without breaking down. Speaking has never been my strength—my thoughts always seem to collide and overwhelm me. But my voice is in my pictures, so I let them speak for me. I strung a laundry line across the entry to the synagogue sanctuary, using rope and clothespins to hang photographs that told Alan’s story as I saw it. It was my way of honoring him, of sharing the memories and emotions that words could never quite capture.

Alan was so many things: a motorcycle rider, a philosopher at heart, a photographer (the first person who I ever saw with a homemade “selfie-stick”) and above all, a man who lived with an open heart. He found joy in every moment, no matter how small, and shared that joy with everyone around him. He was a bridge builder between worlds—the motorcycle rides we shared and the vibrant Jewish community he was deeply involved in. Most of the guys we rode with barely knew about that side of his life, just as his community might not have known the adventures we shared on the road. But that was Alan, connecting people and perspectives wherever he went.

Goodbye, Alan. See you down the road.