"When he said my name it sounded like the start of a song."

By Kristen Smith

Twenty years ago, I met a man named Steve Warren in Winterville, Georgia where I live. I asked his permission to take some red clay from a construction project going on at the business he owned. A friend in California needed the red clay for an art project, and I was going to mail it to her. Steve was in his forties, and he used a cane. We stood on a slab of concrete, and he told me he had MS and that he was moving away to be closer to family. We talked about life and his illness, and I went home with a kind of dreamy feeling that comes from having a profound conversation with someone you only just met.

Seven years ago, Steve returned to Winterville and became my next-door neighbor and my friend. He had, by that time, lost the use of his arms and legs. But he could talk and move his head, and he could smoke with assistance, which he did even though a “no smoking” decal hung on his door. He had gotten divorced. He had round-the-clock care right there in his home. 

He had a beautiful Southern accent made softer and slower by his disease. When he said my name it had about four syllables and sounded like the start of a song. He loved cheesecake and sweets, and I baked for him regularly. I thought of him next door in the bed while I ran from thing to thing. The challenges of living a life like that . . . he made me realize that none of us knows what we would choose to do in his situation. 

His body slowly declined, but his attitude remained freakishly upbeat. It sounds sappy or like a moral, but I want to tell this part of the story because it was important to Steve. We spoke about this only once. He said he would rather not have MS, but that he hoped by being cheerful he inspired others who were having problems of their own. So that was his approach. It was meaningful to him and it’s meaningful to me.

There is a barber in Winterville named Herschel Reeves. Herschel is in his eighties now, but does his own yard work and cuts hair three days a week. When I visited Steve recently I commented on his haircut. Herschel made house calls for Steve. One of the last funny things Steve said to me was about Herschel. He said, “He gave me my first haircut,” . . . big pause . . . “and he’ll give me my last.” And he smiled. 

Steve died on Sunday. He was 65.