I’m not sure there is an origin story for Tom. I think he and three Massachusetts pals quit their office jobs, rented a house in the early ‘80s and settled in to enjoy the ski season. Three were back home before spring. Tom was the one who stayed on.
It’s hard imagining Tom in an office job. I only knew him through carpentry and construction.
In December 1984, he was hired by my boss to help finish a garage in East Warren. It was 20-degrees cold, very windy, a heavy layer of rime frost covered everything – cedar shingles, tar paper, wooden staging planks. On the roof, Tom was visibly shaking. I thought it was from the winterish weather. Once I realized he never would lift his left hand out of contact with the roof to set a nail or grab the next shingle, I knew he was scared. Scared of the ice, scared of the wind gusts, scared of the 12-foot drop to the ground. Before long, he was back inside the garage bays helping another.
That was not a good beginning for Tom in construction. Little did I know, we’d be working building projects together for the next 41 years. He learned the work, bought himself all kinds of good tools and stuck with it. Dogged perseverance was one of his best traits.
The same was true of skiing. Realizing his ski pass was becoming more and more expensive, he dedicated himself to learning first aid so he could be on the mountain as volunteer patrol, then eventually paid patrol. That got him out of the lift shacks and on the snow.
As decent a fellow as he could be, Tom considered himself a bit socially misfit, emotionally ambivalent. He’d try to act as if being surly and stubborn was the foundation of his bearing, denying he was tender-hearted. Yet he was always willing to lend a helping hand with tools or labor. Generosity was another hidden trait; when he no longer needed his high-end wood stove, he simply gave it to me.
At work, he’d grumble about most everything, complaining about hand digging sauna tubes all day when backhoes seem to do the work very well. But he’d be the one to assault any big stone with his long iron bar, then jump in the hole to wrestle the damn thing out. Grubbing around and getting dirty at work was no problem. After many of those hard-labor days, he’d spend the evening helping Hadley Gaylord hay. When I asked him about working so much, he’d say he liked to eat meat. Hadley had a lot of his favorite kinds. Typical Studley reasoning.
Tom was not a great conversationalist. If engaged in talk, his first response was always befuddled silence. After I’d repeated what I’d said, he might add a “bite me,” hinting he’s better off left alone. He’d soon add a temperate “Jeepers, really?” then come through with his part of the conversation.
I only saw him laugh out loud once on a job. Roofing again, but under pleasant fall conditions. A gust of wind blew my hat off, dropping it in front of Tom as he was about to air-nail an asphalt shingle. He nailed my hat instead, asking in between his big chuckles if this was a new roofing product we’re using now. He was cagey enough the rest of the day to keep me from getting even.
One Sunday about suppertime, a year or so ago, he called and asked if I could go let his cat in and feed it. I said sure, then asked why he couldn’t. He told me they wouldn’t let him outta the hospital! Even though he promised to come right back! Persistent, lower abdominal pain had led him to the CVH ER. I pummeled him with questions, most of which got his ambivalence as answer. One doctor was thinking appendicitis, somebody else mighta been thinking diverticulitis, so and so said he should have a scan but nothing got scheduled. He thought they were planning to make him stay a night for observation. They didn’t seem to believe he’d had these symptoms before and it always cleared up. Instead of talking treatments, Tom kept asking to go home for his cat, more committed to pet care than his own. I imagine he pestered so much, they finally relented. He came home with pills and got healthy.
He knew his strengths and limits very well.
I had several personal nicknames for Tom; Tombo, McStudley, Studman, plus many unprintable, on-the-job names we’d rush to call each other first. After that hospital call, there’s only one I need now.
Good friend.
Rick Thompson
