Contributing writer
When we discovered that Tim Steinborn had a brain tumor about a year ago, it shook our lives like a tsunami — a gigantic, unexpected, devastating wave that knocked us off our feet. How impossible to think that his life might be over. He had always been strong as a horse. His invincibility was part of his charm. As with the onset of any sudden illness, Tim couldn’t believe what was happening to his body.
A dullness takes over your senses as you attempt to work your way toward understanding any catastrophe. You go through the motions — a part of you keenly aware of what is transpiring and another part looking on from a distance saying, “This can’t be.”
The Three Musketeers, as we had jokingly called ourselves for years, were stunned. It was like my sister Jessica, Tim, and I were standing on a high bluff beside the Pacific Ocean — enjoying the view — when the biggest wave you could ever imagine rises up with fierce intensity and you’re washed off your perch into a swirl of water below and one of you is gone.
When my sister and I chose to come to rural America for our country odyssey, people often asked, “Why on earth would you choose to come to Ramona?” or “Don’t you miss California?”
We waved their concerns away and didn’t even realize that one of the reasons we could say, “It’s not that big of an adjustment. It’s no big deal” was because of Tim. We really had no way of gauging his impact because he was present before we moved here and his involvement in our lives was just a continuation of what had begun years before.
He had already become someone we could depend on so there was no way we could know just how undependable and unpredictable rural life could really be without him.
I’m a very practical person. Tim was a practical person. We both had good common sense, so our solutions were compatible. Our collaboration just worked for whatever reason and we had fun working together. Once in awhile we’d hit a snag, like the year he decided to quit chewing tobacco right before our 4th of July event and we wondered how we’d get through it. But usually, whatever we came up with, he’d find a way to accomplish.
As we’d talk about our history in Ramona, my sister and I would refer to 1990 — the year we bought The Ramona House — as B.T. (before Tim). B.T. explained a lot as we attempted to fix porches, remove old wall furnaces, and hang drywall. There was only so much “the girls” could take on during the B.T. era.
Now, in the year of W.T. (without Tim) I’ve come to realize that he was even more of a blessing than I could have imagined. If the washing machine malfunctioned and spewed water all over the house, TTT knew what to do to stop the catastrophe while I mopped up the mess. He didn’t stop until he’d figured out how to stop it from happening again.
Unlike the repairman who shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment and said, “Well, I ran it through a cycle and it didn’t do anything for me.”
If the light didn’t function, Tim would fiddle and diddle and try stuff until he’d either discovered the problem or broken it completely. He’d grin at the pieces and say, “Now, we’d better get us a new one.”
When it was Ramona City Council meeting night and there was a controversial subject being handled, Tim would say, “I guess I’ll go with you tonight.”
And he’d just sit at the back of the room. His quiet, solid presence was reassuring.
The loss of a loved one is always shattering, but the loss of Tooltime Tim was multiplied by the areas of our life in the country that depended upon his touch.
As I write this column about rural life, I’ve wondered how long Tooltime Tim’s name will appear. At what point do you get busy with other things, deal with the loss, and life goes on? All I know is that it’s another day in the country and it hasn’t happened yet. Tim’s clomping boots on the porch, his whistle coming in the door, and the breadth and width of him in our world are still sorely missed.