Step Ahead
Steve
Steven Wayne Roper
He wasn't perfect. He just kept taking one step at a time and never stopped.
He was a delight and a pain in the ass. He cleaned trout pond bottoms in Wyoming at thirteen or fourteen and wrote his mother a letter every single day because he was homesick and couldn't quite say so plainly. He drove a 1958 Ford truck with a straight six and wanted to put a V8 in it and race. He prayed on his knees in a gas station bathroom in Rigby, Idaho, because two girls hid his keys and told him to, and they weren't wrong. He went to college on a sixteen-hour drive he never agreed to take. He served a mission in Hawaii at nineteen, and another in Honduras at fifty-four.
He left fifteen years of journals, letters, drafts, and notes — a working archive rather than one neat diary. He also saved nearly four hundred stories over a lifetime: things that moved him, things that made him think, things he wanted the people he loved to know. He had strong opinions and soft hands with the people he loved.
He just kept taking one step at a time and never stopped. That is the whole story, really. But here are the details.