If we purchased the land, the zoo would be enlarged from four acres to six. At the time, it seemed like an enormous step to take. We argued back and forth. We talked, dreamed, and planned. Steve always seemed to worry about the future.
"If anything happens to me, promise that you'll take care of the zoo."
"Of course I will," I said. "That's easy to promise, but nothing is going to happen to you. Don't worry."
"Will you still love me if a croc grabs me and I lose an arm or a leg?"
"Yes, of course I would still love you," I said.
But there were many evenings when he would run through improbably scenarios, just checking to see how I really felt. One night he looked particularly concerned, his brow furrowed.
"What's up?" I asked.
"Tell me why you married me."
I laughed. "Because you're hot in the cot."
That broke the tension, and he laughed too. We both relaxed a little bit. But he would sometimes wonder if I'd married him just because I loved him, or if it was because he was a bit of Tarzan and Croc Dundee and Indiana Jones all rolled into one.
"I'm in love with Steve Irwin," I assured him, "and part of the reason I love you is because you are such a staunch advocate for wildlife. Your empathy and compassion for all animals is part of it too. But most of all, I know that destiny brought us together."
Steve continued our serious discussion, and he spoke of his mortality. He was convinced that he would never reach forty. That's why he was in such a hurry all the time, to get as much done as he could. He didn't feel sad about it. He only felt the motivation to make a difference before he was gone.
"I'm not afraid of death," he said. "I'm only afraid of dying. I don't want to get sick and dwindle. I love working hard and playing hard and living hard, and making every moment count."
I learned so much from Steve. He helped me reevaluate my own purpose, my own life. What would happen if I didn't make it to forty? What legacy would I leave?
That evening he was unusually contemplative. "None of our petty problems really matter," he said.
I agreed. "In a hundred years, what difference is it going to make, worrying about this two acres of land? We need to focus on the real change that will make the world a better place for our children and grandchildren."
Steve gave me a strange look. Children? We had never discussed having children much, because we were flat strapped. The thought of filming more documentaries, running the zoo, raising a family was just too daunting. But that evening we did agree on one thing: We would spend some of my savings and make the leap to enlarge the zoo. We were both so happy with our decision.
"We're lucky that we met before I became the Crocodile Hunter," he said.
I knew what he was talking about. It made things a lot easier, a lot more clear-cut. I had fallen in love with Steve Irwin, not the guy on TV.
"I don't know how they do it," he said.
"Who?" I asked.
"People in the limelight," he said. "How do they tell who's in it for them and who's just after their celebrity? It puts a new slant on everything. Not for us, though," he added.
"Too right," I agreed.
"If anything happens to me, promise that you'll take care of the zoo."
"Of course I will," I said. "That's easy to promise, but nothing is going to happen to you. Don't worry."
"Will you still love me if a croc grabs me and I lose an arm or a leg?"
"Yes, of course I would still love you," I said.
But there were many evenings when he would run through improbably scenarios, just checking to see how I really felt. One night he looked particularly concerned, his brow furrowed.
"What's up?" I asked.
"Tell me why you married me."
I laughed. "Because you're hot in the cot."
That broke the tension, and he laughed too. We both relaxed a little bit. But he would sometimes wonder if I'd married him just because I loved him, or if it was because he was a bit of Tarzan and Croc Dundee and Indiana Jones all rolled into one.
"I'm in love with Steve Irwin," I assured him, "and part of the reason I love you is because you are such a staunch advocate for wildlife. Your empathy and compassion for all animals is part of it too. But most of all, I know that destiny brought us together."
Steve continued our serious discussion, and he spoke of his mortality. He was convinced that he would never reach forty. That's why he was in such a hurry all the time, to get as much done as he could. He didn't feel sad about it. He only felt the motivation to make a difference before he was gone.
"I'm not afraid of death," he said. "I'm only afraid of dying. I don't want to get sick and dwindle. I love working hard and playing hard and living hard, and making every moment count."
I learned so much from Steve. He helped me reevaluate my own purpose, my own life. What would happen if I didn't make it to forty? What legacy would I leave?
That evening he was unusually contemplative. "None of our petty problems really matter," he said.
I agreed. "In a hundred years, what difference is it going to make, worrying about this two acres of land? We need to focus on the real change that will make the world a better place for our children and grandchildren."
Steve gave me a strange look. Children? We had never discussed having children much, because we were flat strapped. The thought of filming more documentaries, running the zoo, raising a family was just too daunting. But that evening we did agree on one thing: We would spend some of my savings and make the leap to enlarge the zoo. We were both so happy with our decision.
"We're lucky that we met before I became the Crocodile Hunter," he said.
I knew what he was talking about. It made things a lot easier, a lot more clear-cut. I had fallen in love with Steve Irwin, not the guy on TV.
"I don't know how they do it," he said.
"Who?" I asked.
"People in the limelight," he said. "How do they tell who's in it for them and who's just after their celebrity? It puts a new slant on everything. Not for us, though," he added.
"Too right," I agreed.
( Terri Irwin )
[ Steve & Me ]
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