A friend of mine died a few days ago. I know. As another friend says, I’ve had a rough year. What really sucks (because sucks is the only word to use for this) is that he was one of the good ones. Not just in a “He was a loyal friend, loving husband, dedicated community member. . .” way. He was really one of the good ones. You actually felt the energy in the room jump up a notch when Tom walked into it. I can’t remember ever being greeted half-heartedly when I saw him. And he and his wife were like newlyweds or a comedy routine, constantly giving each other the business.
Today, after picking up a soaking wet pair of underwear that Elfie had dropped in the toilet and then left on the laundry room floor (“Put them in the laundry sink, Honey.” “Okay, Mommy!”), I was stomping around the house, picking up crap, crap, and more crap, feeling guilty because I was sure that Tom never would’ve felt this way about his family. He would’ve seen through the daily humdrum and found the joy in the midst of the chaos. He’d be laughing, right? Wrong! Well, not completely wrong. He’d be laughing his ass off at me, picking up wet underwear and stomping around. But then I realized, I’d already fallen into the “dead people are always lovely” routine. And I wasn’t giving Tom his due.
During the campaign, one of my jobs was to place visiting volunteers with locals so they wouldn’t have to pay for housing. This was not an easy task, and Tom and his wife saved my butt numerous times by taking in the tired and the poor (actually the young and the annoying) more often than I can count. One night, when they were housing a group of college kids, Tom got a call at 11 p.m. that went something like this:
College kid: “Hi. We’re out, and it looks like we won’t be back until pretty late, so if you could leave the door open, that would be great.”
Tom: “No. Go find some other place to sleep.” Click.
So upon reflection, I think Tom may have been irritated by the wet underpants and all the crap. Which makes me love him all the more. Because it goes to show that just because you generally show up with rainbows, it doesn’t mean you don’t also come armed with a few lightning bolts in your back pocket.
Miss you, Tom.
Tammy Soong is a writer, wife, and mom from Reno, Nevada. She takes an absurd amount of pain medication, but not enough to have actually named her children "Newt" and "Elfie." She spends most days stressing out over clutter, writing stuff for this place, and working on podcasts with her gal pals, the Blogging Betties.