Two-Toned Tom

Remembering Tom - 5th in a 30 piece series

When my dad died, I reached out to his friends to let them know he was gone. He was in touch with a few, but he had lost touch with many in the last decade or so of his life. He used to say - “I should call…” but he didn’t. He had friends in New Hampshire from his life and work there and friends in San Diego. One, who was mentored by my dad in the early stages of his engineering career, wrote to me “damn good man.  He used to call me ‘point and shoot’.  He gave me direction; he told me my job and pulled the trigger. Still hurts. I wish I could get back to where he busted my ass, cuz he didn’t hold back on me.”

I had no idea my dad was a mentor.  

My father was probably better at friendship than fatherhood, at least in the early years. It may be what made him a better father to us as adults, he knew how to be a friend.

My dad had some very good friends.  John, who died many years before my dad, nick-named him Two-Toned for his clothing selection – two tones of beige, or sometimes two tones of blue.  John, his partner Lynda and my dad and step mom, traveled to Ireland together in the late 90’s.  They visited beautiful places and my dad took amazing photos that hung on the walls of his home in San Diego, and then Tucson, and now my home. One of my regrets is having missed out on visiting Ireland with him, especially with what and who I discovered when I journeyed there in 2018. I wish he could have known what I know, and learned what I learned, perhaps he does.

When we were young, my dad had a good friend who died of multiple sclerosis. I remember my mom telling me how much that broke his heart. As kids, of course, our parents have no identity except “parent”.  It is not until we are well into adulthood that we begin to see them as people, friends, employees, members of the world beyond our own needs; as people who experience heartbreak, relationships of all kinds, and an internal dialogue that sometimes freezes them, like it does all humans. 

When my parents were young, they had loads of fun with other couples they were friends with.  They went camping, hosted dinner parties, and dressed up for halloween. They played cards and my dad played jokes. When he said something wise, or funny, or raunchy, he would start laughing at his own craic before he could finish what he was saying - people would laugh at him laughing as much as they laughed at what he said. Everyone enjoyed having my dad around - he was a great cook, he was helpful, he was flirty with the ladies. He was a good time. Years later, when my parents were divorced and my mom would visit old friends of theirs, they would call my dad to share stories of old times and good laughs.

One of my dad’s dearest friends was Jack Smith.  They became instant friends on our first journey to Coventry, VT in 1978 to find a country home for our basset hound, Greta. Jack and his wife Louise, of Heermansmith Farm, and later Heermansmith Farm Inn, were family of my mom’s sister’s husband - so in a way extended family to us.  My parents bought the little home next door to the Inn, so lots of time was spent in Coventry, VT.  Even after my parents divorced and sold the house, my dad visited Jack just about every year when he would come home in the fall. He always carved a pumpkin for Louise. Jack and my dad enjoyed sharing stories and drinking bourbon - Manhattans for Jack, simple bourbon and coke for my dad.

I never asked my dad what he liked about Jack Smith, but I imagine it was his laugh, his enjoyment of food and the simple life, his reflective but not too serious nature and way of seeing the world. He was a writer. He enjoyed good company, hearing and telling stories. Jack enjoyed sitting by the fire and the beauty of the country. My dad was always the one to stay in touch - to visit and to call. The only time Jack called was when my father came out of the ICU after coming as far as one can to the threshold of death from a cardiac arrest. My father was moved “even Jack called me; must have been pretty bad.”  It was a moment that made him realize just how close he had come to death, and how much he was loved. 

My father was probably better at friendship than fatherhood, at least in the early years. It may be what made him a better father to us as adults, he knew how to be a friend. He died just before I turned 40, which is the age I started to say “my dad was the age I am now when…” because I also have the memory of it, from the age I was. Prior to him being 40, I wouldn’t have really been aware of what was happening in his life - but from that time on I know of some milestones, and I wish I could ask him about them now. I keep in touch with his friends, and some have become friends of mine. Through our friendships, we keep our bond to my dad, to their Two-Toned Tom. The stories keep him alive in our hearts, and keep us all laughing.