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REPUBLICAN OF THE YEAR
After Steve snapped a picture of Roy and me (above) he handed me his camera to grab a shot of him with Roy (right). We were just a couple of little boys hanging out with our childhood cowboy hero. It's clear who the better photographer was.
Farewell to a friend
Loss of a close pal, talented artist leaves a void for his small family, few friends
My West Virginia readers will not have known my friend Steve Moses, but those in Ohio who check in regularly will recall what a close pal and confidante he was to me. He died unexpectedly on Aug. 1 at the age of 49, and while I seldom if ever write much of a personal nature on this site, permit me an exception in this case. Think of the two or three closest friends you have in the world. That is what Steve was in my life. I first met Steve in 1993 when I became editor of the Portsmouth Daily Times. Steve was already on staff as the chief photographer. A paper the size of the Daily Times typically would not have a photographer of the experience and talent of Steve Moses. He had already worked for such prestigious outlets as The Associated Press and Agence France Presse, for whom he often traveled oversees chronicling everything from war to poverty. But personal circumstances landed him in Portsmouth for a few years, so he was providing the Daily Times with his unique journalism through the lens of his camera.Although I was technically his boss, I recognized his talent and experience and from the start allowed him to virtually dictate how and where in the newspaper his photos would be used. No doubt, this respect played a large role in us quickly becoming fast friends, and I learned over time that he only had a couple of other people in his life he considered close friends, a doctor in Alabama named Eric, and another longtime pal in Lexington named Booker. I met each one time when they visited Steve in Portsmouth. In a previous life, Steve had been an Army Ranger, serving in the renowned 82nd Airborne Division. He carried with him an attitude of macho cool, but that gruff exterior was immediately evaporated by any encounter with children, animals, the elderly or the poor. He was a big kid at heart, and, like me, someone who had countless acquaintances but few actual friends. When we met, I had recently been divorced, and Steve was single, although engaged to be married. We lunched together almost daily, often ran around together after work, and caused as much mayhem as possible in the town and at the newspaper, joining forces to challenge the status quo and push the envelope for more freedom in coverage, perks and control. The classic editorial vs. advertising tug of war that exists at every newspaper was a fight we were determined to win for the editorial side, and usually we did -- and usually by adopting the philosophy that it was better to ask forgiveness than permission.After he married his lovely wife, Lucia, they adopted me as an extended part of their household, and I was a frequent guest for dinner or just hanging out watching TV. Lucia was amazingly understanding of the road trips or ventures Steve and I continued to pursue.When I left Portsmouth in 1998 to move to Columbus and work for the Ohio Republican Party, Steve and I kept in touch every week, and I continued to make occasional trips down to Portsmouth for visits. But soon, Steve and Lucia made a big move of their own, relocating to New York City, Lucia's hometown, where she was going to work for Editor & Publisher magazine (she now is senior editor at MediaWeek), and Steve pursued his vocation as an independent photographer, taking photographs that appeared often in major publications like Newsday and The New York Times. Shortly thereafter, Lucia contacted me to tell me some shocking news -- Steve had suffered a quick succession of two heart attacks, and was in the hospital. I contacted him and was amused that he reacted to the situation with his usual matter-of-fact demeanor. "It hurt," he said frankly, as though he had stepped on a nail. Steve seemed to have recovered, but I detected an understandable difference in him after that. At the age of 40, life had delivered a serious blow to this 6'3, strong-as-a-rock military veteran. The last time I actually saw Steve was in 2004, when I was attending the Republican National Convention with the West Virginia delegation, and I visited him and Lucia at their Brooklyn apartment for dinner. They had recently adopted two little boys, and Steve was the proudest of fathers. A few days later, after Lora had joined me in New York, Steve stopped by the hotel where we were staying to show me some pictures he had taken at the convention (and which later appeared in several publications). I was happy for the chance to introduce him to my wife, who had heard many stories (maybe not all the stories) of my friendship with Steve.One thing I recognized immediately when visiting Steve in New York was how unhappy he had to have been living in the city itself. Steve hailed from Shelbyville, Ky., and was a country boy at heart. He loved riding his Harley motorcycle, and driving his little Miata convertible down dusty country roads and wide-open interstates. The concrete jungle of Manhattan was not an environment much appreciated by someone who had always previously tended a small garden, had a yard where his pets could roam, and loved nothing more than immersing himself in nature's majesty and beauty.In recent months, our conversations had grown less frequent. I have never been a mystical person, or a big believer in supernatural forces at work in our lives. But a couple of weeks ago, I had an overwhelming desire to give Steve a call. I reached Lucia first, who told me Steve was not doing well with heart issues and other problems, and he was staying at his mother's house in Shelbyville to recuperate. Steve was intensely private, and it would not be his way to let anyone know of his illness, so I called him there with no intention of bringing it up. His mom answered, and even though Steve was out the door on his way to an appointment, she recognized my name and called him back to the phone. He gave me a cheery, "Hey, man!" but I noticed how weak his voice sounded. We spoke for a few minutes, and he asked me to call back later, saying he would be at his mom's for several weeks. I promised to call back.
But I made the mistake we all make too often. I thought I had more time. Five days later, Lucia called me around midnight and told me Steve had died a couple of hours earlier, his mom finding him in his bed, gone.I attended his funeral in Shelbyville on Saturday, and said a few words about Steve and about our friendship. And I told the Roy Rogers story. It is my favorite story.One day in the summer of 1994 while we were both working at the Portsmouth Daily Times, I had heard a rumor that Roy Rogers was in town. Roy had spent his childhood in and around Portsmouth, and had a sister who still lived in town. I located her in the phone book, and dialed the number. A man answered, and I said, "Is Mrs. Willoughby home?" He replied, "No, she's out for a while. This is her brother, Roy." "Roy Rogers?" I asked."Yep."Trying my best to contain the 10-year-old inside me, I explained that I was the editor of the local paper and would love the opportunity to interview him. He said he had a pretty busy schedule and was about to leave to visit some friends. I quickly dropped any pretense of professionalism, told him what a fan I had been for my whole life, and said I would just love the chance to meet him and talk. He said to drop by around 3 p.m.I rushed to the darkroom, and told Steve I needed a camera. "Why?" he asked."I'm going over to interview Roy Rogers and I need to take some pictures," I explained breathlessly."Nuh uh," he said. "I'm taking pictures of Roy Rogers." Like me, Steve was largely unimpressed by celebrities, sports stars or politicians. But as it turned out, Roy Rogers was as big a childhood hero to him as he was to me, and he was determined to meet him, too. I told Steve that I had enough trouble talking myself into his sister's home, and I didn't know how Roy would react if I showed up with a photographer in tow, unannounced. So I came up with a compromise, telling Steve that after I talked with Roy a while and gauged his mood, I'd give him a call and have him come over if Roy gave the OK.When I arrived at Mrs. Willoughby's well-kept two-story colonial home in a residential area of the city, Roy was relaxing in a recliner watching television. I made some small talk, began taking a few notes, and finally asked, "Roy, would you mind if our photographer came over and took a few pictures?"Roy looked at his sister and said, "I guess if I put my hat on I'd look like Roy Rogers." A white cowboy hat wrapped in cellophane was resting on a nearby credenza.I called Steve, and he was at the door before I hung up the phone. Steve took several beautiful portraits of the cowboy star, posing him in natural lighting near a big picture window, capturing that special twinkle that still existed in Roy's eyes even at age 82. When Steve took a portait of someone of which he was especially proud, he would say triumphantly, "I captured his soul." Steve captured Roy's soul that day.Before long, Roy's sister emerged with a couple of scrapbooks she had kept on her brother's amazing career, and Roy reminisced over page after page of pictures and newspaper and magazine stories. Coming upon some photos of his legendary horse, Trigger, who had already been dead many years, Roy's eyes teared up, and he said wistfully, "That Trigger was some horse."I asked Steve to take a picture of me with Roy, and after he had done so, he handed me his camera -- something he almost never did -- and asked me to return the favor. And as we left the house, Roy stepped out onto the steps of the porch, in full cowboy costume, gave us a wave, and serenaded us with a few lines of "Happy Trails."Steve and I had both met many celebrities of greater stature to most people than Roy Rogers. But they were not of greater stature to us. We told that story for months. For years. Recounted it to each other over and over. I'll tell it for as long as I live.Steve's father had never been involved in his life, and his family consisted of his mother, his wife, and his two sons. On Saturday, about 50 people showed up for the funeral, most of them friends of Steve's mom, a couple of childhood friends, an acquaintance from Portsmouth, and Eric, Booker and me. After the funeral, a handful of us traveled in procession the 30 miles west on I-64 to beautiful Cave Hill Cemetery in Louisville, where Steve was laid to rest under a perfectly clear blue sky. He was buried with military honors, the Honor Guard presenting the American flag to Steve's two little boys, now around seven or eight years old. One of the photos displayed at the funeral showed Steve fishing with his two sons. Their mother assured them that Steve is not gone -- that when they go fishing, or show love to their pets, or appreciate nature, their father will be with them.And those words are true, and they are the words we tell ourselves and say to others to comfort our broken hearts. I am glad that Steve knew he was on my mind during the last week of his life. But it is small comfort, indeed, compared to the enormity of the loss. He was my friend, and I'll miss him. 
Making the email rounds...
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More than 60 attend Blair fundraiser in Martinsburg
More than 60 supporters attended a fundraiser for Del. Craig Blair in Martinsburg on Tuesday evening, participating in Blair's pizza party and contributing several thousand dollars to the Republican's campaign for a fourth term in the House of Delegates. Above, supporters enjoy pizza and other snacks, while Blair (pictured at left in the inset) talks with attendees. Blair is widely regarded as one of the more assertive members of the legislature, often taking the lead on issues and initiatives.
Mojo decides store can be given away, but what changed?
Three years ago, Gov. Joe Manchin was asked by American Electric Power officials to approve substantial breaks in regard to the property taxes and business and occupation taxes associated with a new coal gasification plant it was considering building in Mason County.Manchin turned them down, telling The Charleston Gazette, "We're not in a position right now to give away the store."But now, as reported in recent days, the Manchin administration has agreed to give nearly $200 million in tax breaks to developers of a coal-to-liquids plant in Marshall County -- about $3.3 million in government incentives for each of the 60 jobs expected to be created.The main difference, of course, is that three years ago Manchin had just been elected, and three years later, he's trying to get re-elected. Creating good news at election time is apparently worth tax breaks considered unwise just three years ago.