One day in the late'70s, when I was living near Washington, DC, I went to a Mensa Regional Gathering in DC. After the usual Saturday evening banquet, I stayed in the banquet hall after most people had left, talking to a few other laggards. A guy about my age went up on the stage where there was a piano, and started playing.
He was absolutely fantastic! He was playing classic compositions, but he was adding to it, takeoffs that the composer never wrote. I was amazed. I didn't know that a simple piano could make such sounds. The other people didn't seem to notice and gradually drifted out, until it was just the two of us left in the room.
I stood below the stage apron, unnoticed, as he played. When he finally stopped, I told him that I thought he was wonderful. I asked if he played professionally, and he said no. I (and I can't believe now that I actually said it) told him that he should. He laughed and said that it's hard work, the business end is stressful, and "besides, there's no money in it." We introduced ourselves, and he became one of my favorite people in Washington Mensa. He was simple, gentle, and sweet, but in conversation quietly came out with some stunning insights.
Even though I knew his name, an unusual name difficult to forget, even for name-disabled me, it wasn't until much later that I found out who he was.
I just a few minutes ago found out that Tandyn Almer died last January. He was an amazing person (an obituary). Even though I haven't seen him in thirty years, I will mourn the fact that he isn't still out there, quietly being him.