I never tire of hearing other people’s memories of my dad. It’s like someone’s not quite gone when you’re always collecting tiny new pieces from the mosaic of their life. Lucky for me, Steve managed to generate a lot of stories during the course of his illustrious too-short life.
Last night I had dinner at Irv and Eileen’s place, along with Robert Rubin, another old friend of my dad’s. Their new house is palatial, with a sweeping view of the valley, a swimming pool, and a pigeon coop with running water and electricity (a coop that’s fancier than the hippie shack Irv and Eileen lived in when I was little).
When we sat down to a sumptuous spread of New Orleans style grits and shrimp, the talk of course turned to Steve. Robert remembered living with Steve during their early days in Oregon and pointed out that Steve was ahead of his time: even though they lived in a leaky shack with no electricity, Steve had seven types of salt in the kitchen.
“He had this Hawaiian salt he was crazy about,” Robert reminisced, his eyes at half mast and typically dreamy behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. This memory led to Irv telling a story about Steve at a hippie potluck.
“Steve discovered there was no salt on the table and got into this frenzy. He ended up driving seven miles back to the house to retrieve his salt shaker.”
Got any Steve stories for the logs?