The following is the opinion and analysis of the writer:
Tom and I were close. Not that we travelled together nor even spent a lot of time together, but we wrote and spoke frequently about our lives, other people’s lives, and of course words. We laughed about this funny world and anguished about its ailments.
We grew up in a middle-class neighborhood in Washington, D.C. under our intellectual, somewhat disciplinarian father and our artistic, gentle mother. Our parents found a way to adapt the devout Judaism of their immigrant parents to mid-century America. We celebrated our Bar Mitzvah but there was no serious subsequent effort to practice Judaism. For the rest of his life Tom was not religious, but proudly Jewish.
We three older siblings went through D.C. public schools, but by high school, Tom was steered by our parents, possibly ordered, to Sandy Springs Friends School in nearby Maryland. From there he followed the expected path to a liberal arts college, The College of Wooster in Ohio. When I left the U.S. for Brazil in late 1967, Tom may not have been an earnest and studious fellow, but he did have a crew-cut. When I returned 30 months later, Tom picked me up at the airport — barefoot, shirtless, and with hair down to his waist. That change in his appearance reflected the fast-moving change in the U.S. and Tom’s world view. He had left college and embraced the counterculture, but he was now writing about the counterculture’s own ambiguities, hypocrisies, and evolution.
Tom got his infatuation with words and puns from our father. He was a successful lawyer and ultimately a juvenile court judge who was happiest with words. Tom often gave the example of our father, as judge, responding to a lawyer in court who asked “Judge, what is your disposition on the matter?” Dad peered over his glasses to the lawyer “My disposition is always pleasant!”
A unique summer camp in the North Carolina mountains also contributed to Tom’s life and values. When at Camp Catawba, campers had to provide a letter home to join the dinner table. Seven-year-old Tom wrote “Dear Mom and Dad, I’m writing you so they’ll let me eat dinner. Love, Tom.”
Much has been written about Tom’s ability to see some otherwise unremarkable scene and write a story that tells us what we missed. He found worthy subjects everywhere he went. He did that when he visited me where I lived on the U.S.-Mexico border and then wrote “On The Border.” He visited me when I lived in Ecuador and then wrote “The Panama Hat Trail.” Later, after learning more Spanish from his wife Regla, he learned even more about language in editing “How I Learned English.” Tom visited me in South Africa and wrote a few stories about his experiences. He was always curious about people, never about the natural world. As we rode through the Kruger National Park, enjoying and in awe of the flora and fauna, I turned to see how he was doing in the back seat — one time he was reading a book, another time dozing.
In recent years, as Tom was less mobile and I travelled to the U.S. less frequently, I think in many ways we grew closer. We spoke on the phone with increased frequency. As recently as four months ago, we’d talk maybe two or three times a week. This was a very important part of my normal life. We continued to laugh and share cryptic references to our family and blatant references to the craziness of the world. Our cousin Mike Miller (of whom Tom would say, “Oh, he’s like a cousin to me.”) enjoyed similar irreverent calls with Tom. We relished puns, one-liners and very inside jokes. In the vein of one of Tom’s book reviews, “We cried until we laughed.”
My last visit to Tucson, in April 2022, had a daily predictability. I’d show up at his office door at about seven in the morning, armed with a couple of donuts and cappuccino. He couldn’t take his eyes from the treat — “oh, what do you have there, donuts? Is that for me??”. One morning I pushed him in his wheelchair outside, up the street, around the corner, and completely around the block. “Whee!” he would mock-joyously shout. Even in that limited travel, he observed and explained, in this case for me, the meaning of the various front-yard signs.
The words that are often used to describe Tom and his writing are accurate. He had a dry quick wit, a droll sense of humor, and a sardonic and ironic worldview. I miss those phone calls. I miss him.
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