Writing an article in his weekly column about Steve and Gini was a start. It was around that time that an unexpected knocking was heard on the door at 46 Garden Street. It was after dark as they sat in their kitchen looking at each other, wondering who the hell could be at their door? Steve got up and answered. There was a stranger standing in the cold with a guitar case.

"Are you Stevedore Steve," he asked?

"I used to be. Why?"

"Because I think I've got your guitar."

Steve asked the man to come in so that he could inspect what was in the case. Sure enough, after so many years, his old guitar had come back to him. Without asking any questions Steve paid the man what he wanted - which wasn't very much - for his old companion. It was hopelessly out of tune and worse for wear but it set a spark off in Steve's heart that set the wheels in motion and a desire to start writing and playing music again. This after a period of more than ten years.

He was still in touch with Connors at the time. Tom would sometimes drop in to visit and it bothered him to see the way the Footes were living. Arguments would ensue as Tom would try to urge Steve back into music but he was as stubborn as Tom was, solid as a rock. It seemed that there was no way of making the Stevedore budge. 

In the early 1970s I took my guitar and hopped a bus for Peru. I know that sounds strange, but that's what I did. I left from Dundas and Bay with a book full of songs by Gordon Lightfoot, John Prine, Stompin' Tom and Stevedore Steve. I was asked to play at parties in Mexico and Columbia; sometimes I'd strum and compose a song like the time on the hotel rooftop in San Jose, Costa Rica. Like Steve and Tom before me, I was going somewhere and my guitar was a ticket out of trouble or for a meal.

I can never forget the time when I was all alone in the village of Otavalo in central Ecuador, just minutes north of the Equator. It was a quite place with dim lights located high in the Andes Mountains. I met a man who heard me playing the guitar and he asked if I would consider playing a song or two on his local radio program. Of course I agreed. All that day I had this picture in my mind of a small studio with a dim light and ceiling tile acoustics on the walls. I arrived at the address to find two men standing outside listening to a transistor radio. One of them told me to wait as he went inside to help me; the other man with the transistor stayed behind. There was some very strange music coming out of that little radio, it sounded like a variety show in Spanish with great howls of laughter. After a few minutes the first man re-appeared and asked me to follow him inside. I trudged up the darkened stairs and into a large hall packed with people seated on the floor, standing around the edges and even seated on the rafters high above. Most were Otavalo Indians in their traditional garb - white clothes with long black braided hair and fedoras. Eduardo, the man who had invited me down, was on a stage at the far end of the room with a child who strummed away at a guitar - unable to play any chords - singing. He looked at me and stopped the show, asking folks to make way for me, so that I could get through with my heavy guitar case.

"This is my friend Estebban, from Canada. He will sing us a song from his country," he announced both to the crowd and the radio audience.

This was live to air. This was local entertainment much the way it was in Canada in the 1930s. I took out the guitar to the watchful eyes of the silent audience; I could tell that Eduardo was nervous about this as well. A song about Canada!  That meant Alberta Bound, Algoma Central or I'm A Truck Driver. I chose the first one.

The audience exploded after the first few lines as if I was singing one of their old time favourites. "Please, another one," requested Eduardo. I sang Algoma. Stompin' Tom to the rescue. I had Steve's song in case of a third but that was all they asked for. I left there a hero. For the rest of my stay in Otavalo I was regarded as a celebrity for singing Canadian songs.

In 1975 I decided to go to India. This time I would not be burdened with a chunky guitar to lug around. By the time I got to Calcutta I was longing to play music again and in the hotel dorm I was staying in was a Canadian guy with a guitar. He reluctantly allowed me to play a few songs and that is how I met my wife Maggie. The first thing she heard me play was Peaceful Easy Feeling, but after that I resorted to Stompin' Tom and Stevedore Steve.

I returned to Canada a married man, having tied the knot with Maggie in the UK in February, 1977. She was coming to this country for the very first time but already she knew of Stevedore Steve. Our two children were born with Canadian music, both the Stevedore and Connors were imprinted in their fresh, young brains. Wherever we would travel in Ontario there was a song to identify it with. We'd pass over the mighty Pickerell River, see the statue of the goose in Wawa, or see the Hollinger Mine in Timmins, my home town, the place where Steve wrote his demise of "The Duke".

For many years I shared the music of the Stevedore with a small circle people. Then I met a postal worker by the name of Kevin Nan.

Kevin and I hit it off just like that. When I showed him the covers of my Stevedore albums he flipped out, couldn't stop laughing at Hard Workin' Men.  But when I put the records on he flipped out even more when Steve sang:

The East Coast way of life is hard as hell
but the men are even harder

He was hooked on the music of Stevedore Steve.

Kevin was always impulsive to the extreme and searched every music shop for a copy of one of Steve's records. I found a used copy of Songs of the Stevedore and gave it to him as a Christmas gift. The moment I handed it to him he knew what it was and keeled over of laughing pain as soon as he confirmed it. "Look at his jaw. His arms. The sinews." As much as I love the music of Stevedore Steve, Kevin loved the image.

In 1986 I decided to do something about what I believed. I dreamed of a time when Canadian radio would play the blues, the folk music and Canadian Country. I vowed that I would have something to do with it. I was a member of the Toronto Blues Society and The Mariposa Folk Foundation. By the first month of 1987 I was elected to the Mariposa board of directors. I don't really know how I got there, it was just stepping forward when others stepped back, I guess. But now I was in a position to begin my quest. Within months I was the new Editor-In-Chief of the Mariposa Notes newsletter. Maggie drew a sketch of Stevedore Steve from the cover of I've Lived which I used as an editorial logo. It was apparent to me even then what I was up against: the folk music world was confined to a definite circle which did not include people like Stevedore Steve. It as my job to include these people in their official newsletter.

It was in the spring of 1988 that I got an idea: why not phone Boot Records and see if they had any extra copies of Stevedore Steve albums. I called and spoke with Jury Krytiuk who confirmed that he still had a few copies hanging around. I phoned Kevin Nan and told him what I'd found; he was over in a flash and we drove to the Mississauga offices of Boot. I had seen Jury before at Stompin' Tom concerts but had never really spoken with the man. He seemed aloof, a little cranky, not the friendly guy I thought he would be. He went into the warehouse and returned with brand new copies of Stevedore Steve's two albums on Boot (no copies of Lester the Lobster in stock); Kevin was on cloud 9. He even sold us a few 45s we never realized existed. When I asked Jury if he knew the whereabouts of Stevedore Steve he shook his head and said, "The last address I had for him was in Saint John, but I don't know where he lives now." I asked him where he sent his royalty payments? but Jury closed up like a clam.

In the car Kevin held his albums as if they were gold. I looked at him and said: "You have a week off in May don't you? Well so do I. We're going to look for Stevedore Steve."