Prayers For His Family and For His Soul Please
Feb 2, 2016 3:27:42 GMT
cornhusker, paisley, and 6 more like this
Post by Ozarks Tom on Feb 2, 2016 3:27:42 GMT
Thursday I'll be in Dallas to attend the services for my nephew. He'd been having treatments for throat cancer, and apparently gave up hope, even though the doctors said he was responding well. Been through the chemo and radiation, but in terrible pain with a feeding tube, unable to swallow or speak. Some say suicide keeps you from Heaven, I can't believe this wonderful guy could go anywhere else. He left behind a Christian wife, and 2 home schooled teenagers.
He came to live with me just before turning 13, and was the son I never had. I miss him.
I've written a letter to his wife and children, telling them some things they might want to know about Steve. I'm posting it here because I feel like telling the world about him. Sorry for it being so long.
Some things I remember about Steve.
When he was about 10, he helped me build a small office in a mini-warehouse. I was surprised how much he instinctively understood about how things should go together. He set the pre-hung door by himself. I didn’t have to change a thing about it.
We didn’t play catch a lot, but I noticed when I’d throw a hard fast one near his head, he didn’t duck. He had confidence if he put his mitt in the way he’d catch it.
He was being bullied by some kids in his apartment complex, so I asked his mother to let him stay with me over a weekend. We talked about bullies being cowards. How a good punch would send them home crying, but you had to have the gumption to punch them to prove it. I taught him some boxing, even some “dirty” fighting. He had the gumption, a week or two later a bully tried to take a bike away from him, and he sent him home crying.
He came to live with me when Joan moved to Chicago. I had a ratty “guest house” out back, so we set about making it livable. I didn’t have a lot of time to invest, so he basically did everything himself. It turned out really well, with changed/new plumbing and lights, sheetrock taped/bedded/painted. He even scrounged a small kitchen table & chairs.
During the renovation he found a complete skeleton of a rat who’d died just about to climb over a rafter. A perfect pose. He sprayed it liberally with several coats of polyurethane before taking it down from the attic, and mounting on a small plaque he’d made. A rather grotesque, but innovative table centerpiece.
I’d gotten into motorcycles, so when he came to live with us I bought him a dirt bike. It was the ugliest thing I’d seen. It was an old Hodaka, and there’s a good reason they’re not around anymore. The gear shift and brake were on the wrong sides, it was so poorly balanced we didn’t realize one day he’d been riding on a flat front tire. He had a ball on it.
When the Hodaka finally expired, I got him a Yamaha 125cc. He’d ride that little thing hard enough to keep up with my 500cc Honda. We were riding at Ft Hood one weekend, and came unexpectedly upon a tank trail. My Honda had enough oomph to raise the front wheel and jump it. His bike was already wound out, and he went into the opposite bank like a spike. When I realized he wasn’t with me anymore, I went back to find him in the bottom of the tank trail (8’ deep) aggravated the darn thing had flooded out, but kick starting with all his might.
That same weekend he tape recorded me snoring in the motorhome, just to prove what I’d denied.
He decided he wanted a street bike. My wife at the time, well, that’s another story, didn’t want to spend the money. I helped him gather up a Yamaha 650cc engine, and a Honda frame. The engine was in parts, and definitely wouldn’t fit the frame. He found a Suzuki seat, and a Kawasaki gas tank. My wife and I went in the motorhome someplace over the weekend, and Sunday night as we were coming down Midway road something passed us like a shot. A couple blocks later it shot back up Midway the other direction, then turned and passed us again. Yep, Steve had built that monstrosity since Friday night. The biggest problem, that he quickly solved, was when he fitted the seat the bike was on a stand. When he took it off the stand the seat angled down toward the rear. When he’d hit the gas, he’d nearly slide off the bike. My sister-in-law ran the Dallas County title office, so when she asked what make the bike was to register/license it we couldn’t rightfully call it by any manufacturer’s name, so she put “homemade” on the title. It passed inspection, and he rode it for about a year before he sold it for $600. A true one of a kind.
My carpet company was doing great, but I’d opened a wood flooring distributorship importing Brazilian hardwood flooring. I sold the carpet company to pay the other company's debts, but ended up broke. Steve was working for me at the distributorship, so we started Woodwright Hardwood Floors woodwright.net/ in my garage. We hired a Mexican helper from my old business who refused to speak English, and started doing labor contracts for companies who used to be my competitors. He and I spent a lot of long days, nights and weekends learning as we went. Steve came up with some ways of doing things that are probably trade secrets at Woodwright to this day, like how to make truly black/green/gold floors without painting them. We taught ourselves how to sand/finish wood floors with ancient equipment bought on time from one of our customers. Before long we rented a 1000 sf mini-warehouse, and hired more people. We started making simple patterns for our labor customers as a sideline, herringbone and unit block was about our limit. Our equipment then was pawnshop and auction quality, but Steve made that old stuff do everything we needed. We got to the point where I did the sales/administrative, and Steve ran the shop and field work
.
We got to the point where we needed more space, so we rented a 5500 sf building, but quickly outgrew it. We rented a 12000 sf building, and it too soon filled with equipment. Steve would find equipment at auctions, and rebuild it to suit his purpose. If he couldn’t find what he wanted, he built it. We had a sawmill in Frisco, cutting mesquite logs, and wanted to make “end grain” flooring from the center cants that wouldn’t make planks. We talked about it on a Friday, and Monday morning I came in to find an automated machine that not only cut end grain, but the operator could load a cant into it, and walked away. When he came back 10 minutes later the machine had cut all the pieces, and dropped them into a drum. Pneumatics, limit switches, auto feeder, the whole thing in 2 days!
When I tell people about Steve, I don’t say he had a “knack”, I tell them he had a “genius” for anything mechanical. And yes, I tell a lot of people about Steve. Another thing I tell them is how I’d have to ask Steve to start over from the beginning when he’d try to explain something to me. He assumed I was as smart as him, and already understood everything up to where he’d start explaining. Nope. He could picture things three dimensionally, and already knew how something should work, doesn’t everybody?
One thing that stands out from our Dragon Street days, was the day I walked out into the shop to see Steve about something. He was walking from the back, past a saw with two Mexican guys working it. One of the guys was brand new, and didn’t know Steve spoke enough Spanish to get by. As Steve walked past the saw, he pivoted around and punched the new guy, sending him flying over a stack of lumber. The guy jumped up and ran out the back off the train dock, never to be seen again. I was a bit curious as to his new style of management, so he explained the new guy was a smart alec, and as Steve walked by he said to the other in Spanish “there goes the boss who likes little boys”. I commended him on his choice of discipline.
There are so many things I remember about Steve, how he made lasting friends, how he’d stop to see people just to see how they were doing. His quiet, yet strong way of dealing with others. I especially remember the day he bought Woodwright. He’d built me a wooden toolbox (that I use to this day) and filled it with small woodworking tools. I was packing my car when he gave it to me, and we shook hands. Then he hugged me. That’s not how our family does things. That meant more to me than he ever knew.
The last time I talked to Steve was the day he had the feeding tube put in. As we hung up, he said “I love you Tom” and I said “I love you too Steve” If you’re going to part, that’s the way to do it.
He came to live with me just before turning 13, and was the son I never had. I miss him.
I've written a letter to his wife and children, telling them some things they might want to know about Steve. I'm posting it here because I feel like telling the world about him. Sorry for it being so long.
Some things I remember about Steve.
When he was about 10, he helped me build a small office in a mini-warehouse. I was surprised how much he instinctively understood about how things should go together. He set the pre-hung door by himself. I didn’t have to change a thing about it.
We didn’t play catch a lot, but I noticed when I’d throw a hard fast one near his head, he didn’t duck. He had confidence if he put his mitt in the way he’d catch it.
He was being bullied by some kids in his apartment complex, so I asked his mother to let him stay with me over a weekend. We talked about bullies being cowards. How a good punch would send them home crying, but you had to have the gumption to punch them to prove it. I taught him some boxing, even some “dirty” fighting. He had the gumption, a week or two later a bully tried to take a bike away from him, and he sent him home crying.
He came to live with me when Joan moved to Chicago. I had a ratty “guest house” out back, so we set about making it livable. I didn’t have a lot of time to invest, so he basically did everything himself. It turned out really well, with changed/new plumbing and lights, sheetrock taped/bedded/painted. He even scrounged a small kitchen table & chairs.
During the renovation he found a complete skeleton of a rat who’d died just about to climb over a rafter. A perfect pose. He sprayed it liberally with several coats of polyurethane before taking it down from the attic, and mounting on a small plaque he’d made. A rather grotesque, but innovative table centerpiece.
I’d gotten into motorcycles, so when he came to live with us I bought him a dirt bike. It was the ugliest thing I’d seen. It was an old Hodaka, and there’s a good reason they’re not around anymore. The gear shift and brake were on the wrong sides, it was so poorly balanced we didn’t realize one day he’d been riding on a flat front tire. He had a ball on it.
When the Hodaka finally expired, I got him a Yamaha 125cc. He’d ride that little thing hard enough to keep up with my 500cc Honda. We were riding at Ft Hood one weekend, and came unexpectedly upon a tank trail. My Honda had enough oomph to raise the front wheel and jump it. His bike was already wound out, and he went into the opposite bank like a spike. When I realized he wasn’t with me anymore, I went back to find him in the bottom of the tank trail (8’ deep) aggravated the darn thing had flooded out, but kick starting with all his might.
That same weekend he tape recorded me snoring in the motorhome, just to prove what I’d denied.
He decided he wanted a street bike. My wife at the time, well, that’s another story, didn’t want to spend the money. I helped him gather up a Yamaha 650cc engine, and a Honda frame. The engine was in parts, and definitely wouldn’t fit the frame. He found a Suzuki seat, and a Kawasaki gas tank. My wife and I went in the motorhome someplace over the weekend, and Sunday night as we were coming down Midway road something passed us like a shot. A couple blocks later it shot back up Midway the other direction, then turned and passed us again. Yep, Steve had built that monstrosity since Friday night. The biggest problem, that he quickly solved, was when he fitted the seat the bike was on a stand. When he took it off the stand the seat angled down toward the rear. When he’d hit the gas, he’d nearly slide off the bike. My sister-in-law ran the Dallas County title office, so when she asked what make the bike was to register/license it we couldn’t rightfully call it by any manufacturer’s name, so she put “homemade” on the title. It passed inspection, and he rode it for about a year before he sold it for $600. A true one of a kind.
My carpet company was doing great, but I’d opened a wood flooring distributorship importing Brazilian hardwood flooring. I sold the carpet company to pay the other company's debts, but ended up broke. Steve was working for me at the distributorship, so we started Woodwright Hardwood Floors woodwright.net/ in my garage. We hired a Mexican helper from my old business who refused to speak English, and started doing labor contracts for companies who used to be my competitors. He and I spent a lot of long days, nights and weekends learning as we went. Steve came up with some ways of doing things that are probably trade secrets at Woodwright to this day, like how to make truly black/green/gold floors without painting them. We taught ourselves how to sand/finish wood floors with ancient equipment bought on time from one of our customers. Before long we rented a 1000 sf mini-warehouse, and hired more people. We started making simple patterns for our labor customers as a sideline, herringbone and unit block was about our limit. Our equipment then was pawnshop and auction quality, but Steve made that old stuff do everything we needed. We got to the point where I did the sales/administrative, and Steve ran the shop and field work
.
We got to the point where we needed more space, so we rented a 5500 sf building, but quickly outgrew it. We rented a 12000 sf building, and it too soon filled with equipment. Steve would find equipment at auctions, and rebuild it to suit his purpose. If he couldn’t find what he wanted, he built it. We had a sawmill in Frisco, cutting mesquite logs, and wanted to make “end grain” flooring from the center cants that wouldn’t make planks. We talked about it on a Friday, and Monday morning I came in to find an automated machine that not only cut end grain, but the operator could load a cant into it, and walked away. When he came back 10 minutes later the machine had cut all the pieces, and dropped them into a drum. Pneumatics, limit switches, auto feeder, the whole thing in 2 days!
When I tell people about Steve, I don’t say he had a “knack”, I tell them he had a “genius” for anything mechanical. And yes, I tell a lot of people about Steve. Another thing I tell them is how I’d have to ask Steve to start over from the beginning when he’d try to explain something to me. He assumed I was as smart as him, and already understood everything up to where he’d start explaining. Nope. He could picture things three dimensionally, and already knew how something should work, doesn’t everybody?
One thing that stands out from our Dragon Street days, was the day I walked out into the shop to see Steve about something. He was walking from the back, past a saw with two Mexican guys working it. One of the guys was brand new, and didn’t know Steve spoke enough Spanish to get by. As Steve walked past the saw, he pivoted around and punched the new guy, sending him flying over a stack of lumber. The guy jumped up and ran out the back off the train dock, never to be seen again. I was a bit curious as to his new style of management, so he explained the new guy was a smart alec, and as Steve walked by he said to the other in Spanish “there goes the boss who likes little boys”. I commended him on his choice of discipline.
There are so many things I remember about Steve, how he made lasting friends, how he’d stop to see people just to see how they were doing. His quiet, yet strong way of dealing with others. I especially remember the day he bought Woodwright. He’d built me a wooden toolbox (that I use to this day) and filled it with small woodworking tools. I was packing my car when he gave it to me, and we shook hands. Then he hugged me. That’s not how our family does things. That meant more to me than he ever knew.
The last time I talked to Steve was the day he had the feeding tube put in. As we hung up, he said “I love you Tom” and I said “I love you too Steve” If you’re going to part, that’s the way to do it.