Steve Kinsey, beloved husband, father, Pawpaw, and friend to all he met, died on March 18 due to complications of Alzheimer's disease. He was likely welcomed by his parents, brother, extended family, friends, and a variety of animal companions.

He was married for 54 years to his sweetheart, Velda. Steve, by all accounts, was a walking miracle after a farm accident fractured his skull and took his hearing when he was 15. He could have easily given up, but he didn't.

He was a powerful athlete, excelling in both basketball and football—a force to be reckoned with.

His father, JD, died in an auto accident just as Steve entered college at Southern Tech. He could have easily given up, but he didn't.

Daddy lived his life by the Golden Rule and embodied a never, ever, ever give up spirit that I, his only daughter, feel blessed to have inherited.

He had a green thumb and could grow anything, bringing plants back to life when everyone else would have given up. He was a dedicated farmer who loved all the animals on the farm. He knew them by name, and each was special to him. He was an artist who mastered charcoal drawings and doodles that always made us laugh. He was a woodworker and carpenter who designed and built our family home with pride and determination. He knew every type of flower on the farm, all planted with purpose—especially his mother's beautiful roses. He loved to hunt and fish, and I have countless memories of Daddy spending hours untangling my fishing line without ever losing his patience. He had his own way of saying things—phrases only he used. And he believed WD-40 and duct tape could fix just about anything.

My daddy taught me so much. He taught me to bait a hook, drive a stick shift, and shoot a gun. He taught me the importance of listening. He reminded me to be patient—something I'm still working on. He taught me to hope for the best but prepare for the worst. He showed me that rainy days will come, but the sun will eventually rise. Most of all, he taught me how to love.

He was always supportive and loving. He never missed a game, a meet, or a show—and there were lots of them. He was proud of me even when I wasn't proud of myself. He was the best man I've ever known. He didn't talk a lot; he spoke when he had something worth saying. Big crowds weren't his thing—his hearing aid feedback made sure of that—but I could look across a room and have an entire conversation with him just through eye contact.

There were so many laughs in our home when he mispronounced words (which was often), as my mom and I tried to figure out what he was saying. While it could be frustrating to repeat ourselves constantly, it was just normal for us. We always wanted to include him, so we said it again and again and again…you get the picture.

I learned more from my father in his quiet presence than I have from anyone else with all their words.

There are so many things I'll miss about my daddy. His big ol' belly laughs, and bear hugs are front of mind. They were epic and unmatched, and I look forward to the day I get to experience those again.

Steve was never flashy. He was most comfortable in his overalls and ball cap. He didn't want a service, so there was none planned per his wishes. He was cremated, and we will find ways to honor his memory as we grieve his loss. Left behind to cherish his memory are his wife, Velda; myself and my wife, Melissa, his daughter-in-law, whom he loved bigly (his words, not mine); our daughter, Peyton, his granddaughter and the absolute joy of his life; and extended family and friends.

To honor Steve, get outside and enjoy the mountains. Maybe plant a new tree or some flowers. Stop and smell the roses or pick some wildflowers on a road trip and surprise a loved one. Most of all, he would want us to appreciate the little things—the little things in life are the important things, after all. Daddy's memory will live on for us in the beauty of nature surrounding us and on the farm he poured his heart and soul into. I plan to have the best garden this farm has ever seen this year. Daddy will love it.

For families touched by Alzheimer's, you already know—it's a thief. It takes and takes until there is nothing left to take. My family and I are with you. When times get hard, do it anyway. It's okay to be frustrated. It's okay to ask for help. Stick together. Lean on one another. You got this.

We will never, ever forget you, Steve Kinsey. You truly were the salt of the earth. Tally ho.

Love, your #1 fan – your Doll,
Angie