by Sarah
My grandfather was born in 1932 in the backwoods of the Arkansas Ozarks. True to Southern tradition, he was called by both his first and middle name. It wasn’t until seeing his name on a ration card as a youngster that he realized his name wasn’t “Tommyhugh.” His childhood was spent on his family’s subsistence farm, living in a house that lacked both electricity and plumbing, churning butter for his mother (his least favorite chore), and attending a one-room schoolhouse. There was always plenty of food, he later recalled, but not much money for “extras” like shoes during the summer. His father gave him his first art lessons, copying comics from the newspaper. His large extended family included dozens of cousins, some of whom became life-long friends.
Tommy’s family moved to California as migrant farm workers after World War II, where he worked in the fields and orchards as a teen and left behind his “Arkie” accent. He graduated high school and attended junior college (where he lettered in track / high hurdles) and state university. He worked full-time as a gas station attendant while attending university, supporting himself and sending money home to his elderly parents. He graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in Art and was the only person in his family to obtain a college degree; neither of his parents had graduated high school.
Shortly after graduation, Tommy was drafted into the US Army and stationed in Germany. There he met and married his wife, a native German who was working as a nurse. It was a whirlwind romance; they became engaged after knowing each other only five days (“But we saw each other every single one of those days!” his wife always interjects) and married after about four months, shortly before his discharge as a Private First Class. They moved back to California and built a loving marriage that lasted until his death. Armed with a degree but no money (he had to borrow money from his big brother for the plane ticket to bring his wife home from Germany), he worked supplemental jobs for the first several years of their marriage. He began to go by “Tom.”
The family scraped by on pancakes and Karo syrup as Tom eventually found his way into a career in public education. He started teaching in rural one-room schoolhouses, then a suburban junior high, then an elementary school before earning a master’s degree and eventually becoming a principal. He was the opening principal of a local high school and worked there until his retirement.
He and his wife had two sons together and a stillborn baby. Over the years, their family grew to include daughters-in-law and grandchildren. They were in their seventies when his wife was contacted by the adult son that she (as an unwed mother in post-war Germany) had given up as a baby for adoption. Tom welcomed his new bonus son and family with open arms. Later, the death of his youngest son by suicide at age 50 was a heavy blow.
Tom spent nearly thirty years in retirement, traveling, golfing, tending to a large backyard garden, telling stories to his grandchildren, and teaching them to roast hot-dogs over a Webber grill. While enjoying the luxury of being able to afford all the bells and whistles on a new car, he still maintained frugal habits learned in his childhood in the Ozarks. Although Tom never worked professionally as an artist, his proudest accomplishment in his retirement was illustrating a children’s book written by his oldest son for a local historical society.
His last years were marked by a steady decline into dementia. Tragically, a life-long inclination to worry progressed into paranoia and turned him against those he loved most. Tom is better remembered for his devotion to his wife and family; his sense of humor; his love of reading, travel, and tomatoes; his artistic talent; and the joy he found in working with his hands.
He is missed.