They once embarked on a kitchen remodel; it took years. They cooked on a hotplate in thegarage. The Pixar building, under construction during the same period, finished in half the time.
And that was it for the Palo Alto house. The bathrooms stayed old. But — and this was a crucialdistinction — it had been a great house to start with; Steve saw to that.This is not to say that he didn’t enjoy his success: he enjoyed his success a lot, just minus a fewzeros. He told me how much he loved going to the Palo Alto bike store and gleefully realizing hecould afford to buy the best bike there.And he did.Steve was humble. Steve liked to keep learning.Once, he told me if he’d grown up differently, he might have become a mathematician. Hespoke reverently about colleges and loved walking around the Stanford campus. In the last yearof his life, he studied a book of paintings by Mark Rothko, an artist he hadn’t known aboutbefore, thinking of what could inspire people on the walls of a future Apple campus.Steve cultivated whimsy. What other C.E.O. knows the history of English and Chinese tea rosesand has a favorite David Austin rose?He had surprises tucked in all his pockets. I’ll venture that Laurene will discover treats — songshe loved, a poem he cut out and put in a drawer — even after 20 years of an exceptionally closemarriage. I spoke to him every other day or so, but when I opened The New York Times and sawa feature on the company’s patents, I was still surprised and delighted to see a sketch for aperfect staircase.With his four children, with his wife, with all of us, Steve had a lot of fun.He treasured happiness.Then, Steve became ill and we watched his life compress into a smaller circle. Once, he’d lovedwalking through Paris. He’d discovered a small handmade soba shop in Kyoto. He downhill skiedgracefully. He cross-country skied clumsily. No more.Eventually, even ordinary pleasures, like a good peach, no longer appealed to him.Yet, what amazed me, and what I learned from his illness, was how much was still left after somuch had been taken away.I remember my brother learning to walk again, with a chair. After his liver transplant, once aday he would get up on legs that seemed too thin to bear him, arms pitched to the chair back.He’d push that chair down the Memphis hospital corridor towards the nursing station and thenhe’d sit down on the chair, rest, turn around and walk back again. He counted his steps and,each day, pressed a little farther.Laurene got down on her knees and looked into his eyes.
“You can do this, Steve,” she said. His eyes widened. His lips pressed into each other.He tried. He always, always tried, and always with love at the core of that effort. He was anintensely emotional man.I realized during that terrifying time that Steve was not enduring the pain for himself. He setdestinations: his son Reed’s graduation from high school, his daughter Erin’s trip to Kyoto, thelaunching of a boat he was building on which he planned to take his family around the worldand where he hoped he and Laurene would someday retire.