Steve Wright was my friend, and one of the most contrary people I ever knew. He was born in Georgia, a self – described””Redneck” from a respectable background, a tattooed biker who rode a Harley and dipped snuff. He was also a confirmed Socialist politically (the only other hillbilly socialist I know is the musician Steve Earle, who remind sme a little of Steve.).
Steve W had a good act . He had a PhD in biology, and had bee the Game Commissioner 0f two states, Idaho and Vermont. He was also the president of Sterlnng Colleege, where Anniee Proulx and I ran the Wildbranch Writing Workshop for almost a decade.
I remember one speech he gave where he brought all his contradictions together. He had just had brain surgery, and was not at all shy . t. He got up to the podium in his leather jacket and straw cowboy hat, spat into his ever- present spit ,up, and introduced himself, saying “I ain’t drunk. I just had half my BRAIN removed, which I guess qualifies me to be president of this college!”
He visited us in Bozeman after the Sturgis bike rally once, and a busybody neighbor called the cops and told them we were harboring a meth dealer. The cop was amused to see that , instead, he was the President of Sterling.)
I lost track of Steve ,and was trying to get back in touch with him when I found out that he had died, “with” Parkinson’s. ” I was suspicious , as I always am when I see that locution. People don’t ever die from Parkinson’s; they always die “WITH Parkinson’s.
Years before I met him, I had read a piece in theGray’s slushpile I by Steve, called “How To Shoot Your Dog.” It was really a rather kindly piece, advocating that you kill your dog when she has become old and feeble by shooting her in the back of the head when she is on her last great point.
But it bothered me; the dog might never feel a thing, but what about the hunter’s memories? I said to Lib, “I bet this guy kills himself someday”.
I would rather remember happier times, watching Steve admire e a rare e 2 trigger 16 bore very early Browning Superposed that belonged to a woman he knew., or clog dancing with the poet Janisse Ray, the Swamp Witch.