"Early on, I imagined I would pay him back."

[Dale's eulogy to Dad, as read at the SF memorial.]

So I’m the guy in the room who knew Steve as a father-in-law. And what a tremendous father-in-law he was!

I was a nervous wreck when I first came to San Francisco in 1989. I had driven down from my parent’s small farm in Idaho to visit Rachel in her city. Back in the early years, Steve could certainly make a green college student nervous. If he had you under cross-examination for poorly supported opinions and shoddy knowledge of the facts—well, look out. Steve always knew the facts.

Despite his gravitas and stentorian voice, he was a softie of a father-in-law. When I married Rachel four years later, I had dropped out of college and was working nightshift as a veterinary technician. These were not ideal husband-of-beloved-daughter credentials. But Steve threw us a great party in Portland and made a fine toast. He was always happy to have me in the family.

I can’t begin to count how many meals Steve paid for since I first came to San Francisco. He bought airline tickets so we could attend Alan’s seders, sent checks to me during some of the destitute undergraduate years, bankrolled family trips to Yellowstone National Park, to Hawaii, to Tanzania, to Arizona. Early on, I imagined I would pay him back. But he was certainly never going to let me write him a check.

The dollars I can tally up. What is really impossible to measure is how much fun and spirit Steve brought to the table. He sang with wild abandon when the mood struck him: a little Johnny Cash or Beatles rolling down some highway with my boys. Grateful Dead or Joan Baez back in the San Francisco apartment. Sometimes he topped it off with ridiculous dancing with his wife Jean. Steve, you had a voice for the courtroom—not so much for singing. But you never let that get in the way of having a good time.

And as far as I know, Steve never let anything get in the way of being himself. He was the same Steve whether in a tuxedo at a wedding, a suit in the courtroom, or his sweats on the couch. In a lot full of plush lawyer cars, he had the dinged-up 1994 Camry with the busted mirror and scraped door. He always needed a better reason to do something than just because someone told him to. Let's take, for example, getting dressed. You probably don’t know this: Steve put his shoes on first, then his pants, always. It’s more comfortable to tie your shoes before your pants are on, and once your pants are on, you’re ready to go. Of course.

He had his habits. I’m pretty sure he read every single San Francisco Chronicle that landed on the steps to his apartment. And we all knew if we wanted to change his habits, we needed a damn good reason and plenty of time for arguments and cross-examination. Even then the odds were really long. In the 25 years I visited him in San Francisco, there was always Canada Dry Ginger Ale and Velveeta in the refrigerator. The butter was in the same container. The knives were impossible to cut with, the M&M’s, whiskey, and vodka were in the same cabinet. He never rushed to change. Some of the things in his apartment could have used updating, but the constancy of 1710 Cabrillo Street was reassuring.

And what was most immutable of all was his love and support. He loved his city. He loved his people. He loved his family. Everyone said they could count on Steve. He was such a rock in the river.

When Steve was living with us in Seattle early this year, Rachel invited people to write him a toast, and we read those to him. It was really a sweet time for him, for Rachel and I, and for our boys. (And let me just say he cherished those toasts.) I want to finish with words from one of those toasts. Alicia Walker and Rachel were neighborhood kids together in the Richmond in the 1970s. Alicia’s letter was one of the last things we read together. So, from Alicia to Steve:

“ I have a memory of you and Rachel that I cannot quite place in time. We had been at some event that involved balloons, and as we left, you and Rachel were walking in front of me holding hands and a balloon and then you turned to one another, said something I couldn't hear, and then let the balloon go. You both had a look of absolute delight on your faces as you watched it fly away, and were so absolutely content in each others' company. It was a really a lovely sight. As I get older, I realize how very rare those simple moments of complete comfort in another person's presence are, and how being able to have that connection with another person is really among the greatest accomplishments in life.”

Indeed. Steve Scherr connected with so many of us. We were so lucky to share our time with him, and we will always love and cherish him, and keep his joyfulness in our hearts.