tommy

Lori called him dad.  I called him Mr. Hayes...and later, Tom.  The kids called him Papa.  All of his close friends called him Tommy.  This is the eulogy I delivered during his funeral mass at the Church of Our Savior in Jacksonville, IL last Tuesday, the 29th of January.  We'll miss him.

Tommy Hayes: July 26, 1948-January 24, 2013

A few years ago Tom had recently returned from his Canada trip, and had some fish to fry.  I remember watching him as he sat on his concrete patio in front of that fryer, cautiously covering each fillet in just the right amount of cornmeal and then dropping it ever-so-carefully in the oil.  After a certain amount of time Tom would remove each fillet and place it on a plate covered in paper towel.  Each piece would then sit on that plate until it reached the perfectly safe temperature when it could be eaten.  Not too hot, never too cold.  As I watched Tom fry that fish, I imagined him up in Canada on his beloved fishing trip, surrounded by his closest friends.  I knew very little about the trip, only that he loved it.  So I imagined what it was like.  Him in a boat, patiently casting and floating, reeling, removing fish from the hook. Laughing, smiling.  Not wasting any words.  And cherishing every second.  I stopped my imagining and went out to get my first bit of fish.  It was, of course, perfect.  I began to tell him how good it was.  How tender, just the right amount of cornmeal and seasoning.  He gave me a look that said, “Just eat the fish kid, you know I don’t like a big fuss.”  And so I stopped talking and just ate the fish.  I told him how much I liked the fish by eating over 2 pounds of it that day.  I think he was pleased.

I won’t make a big fuss about Tom today.  I think this too will please him.  But I will tell you a little about him, because like you, I too love him.  And his good life deserves at least a bit of fuss.

One of Tommy’s closest friends, Dick Anthony, “Coach,” shared this story with us.  “Tom, Danny Arthalony, Jim Phalen, and I went to Canada fishing for several years.  I believe this was the first year that I went with these fellows.  We flew into a place on the Ogoki River.  As we landed on the water, we noticed that the plane was pulling up to a dock anchored a long way from shore.  At this point we were told that we had to transfer the humongous amount of equipment from the plane onto the dock and then move it by boat to a cabin on the shore.  None of us were real happy about this, but what are you going to do?  We loaded the boats with as much as we could and headed to shore.  Tom was running the boat and I was visually checking things out.  At about 100 yards from shore, Wham!  We hit the bottom of the lake.  The boat went sideways but did not turn over.  Now what do we do?  Well, we strip down and pull the blankety blank boat to shore.  The whole time we were verbally thanking the people back in base camp for not telling us about all the problems we were facing when we got to the lake and I’m wondering what I had gotten myself into.  What I had gotten was years of wonderful friendships.  At least once a year Tom and I would be sitting at the KCs, and the strip down story would get a little more embellished.  I still can’t believe we didn’t get a picture of 4 guys pulling those boats in their undies.”

Over the past few days we have heard stories like this and learned things about Tom that were previously unknown to us.  Tom wasn’t one to toot his own horn or tell a story as evidence of his kindness, or strength, or thoughtfulness.  But those stories exist, in the words of others.  Multiple people have said, “you know, I didn’t know Tom all that well, or talk to him that much, but he always said hi and smiled when he saw me.”  Tom’s simple gestures spoke the words he so often left unspoken.

Lori’s first college roommate didn’t have much money.  Tom picked up on this while he was moving Lori into the dorm her freshman year.  The extent of his interactions with this roommate was a simple, “nice to meet you,” and yet every time he talked with Lori during that year he would ask, “does your roommate need any money.”  He wasn’t being nosy, he was asking because if she was in need, he was ready to give.

Like his thoughtfulness, Tommy’s strength was also often silent.  In this way, his silence became even more pronounced after his diagnosis.  We know that many of you missed seeing him at the KCs, or at the bowling alley, or on the golf course.  While we don’t know all of Tommy’s reasons for this, one reason for this absence was his daily determination to perform a set of exercises that often took him all day to complete.  During the disease, he retained what strength he could through his daily routine of green tea, pomegranate juice, exercise, and of course walking Irish.  It was rigorous and often difficult.  But this is how he brought some control and comfort to a situation that was so uncomfortable and out of his control.  He didn’t forget us.  He loved us.  He was just living, and staying strong, in his own way.

The day before Tommy passed away, during one of his final exchanges with his devoted mother, Eleanor, he said to her through his tears, “I guess this is to see just how tough I am.”  Her emotional response was, “Tommy, you’re plenty tough.  And you just gotta keep being tough.”  I’m sure similar conversations occurred when Tommy was a kid with a scraped knee.  “Tommy, you’re plenty tough.  And you just gotta keep being tough.”  Eleanor, through genetics and deliberate lessons, made Tommy strong.  Strong enough to be a soldier.  Strong enough to be a father.  Strong enough to be a fighter.

Beyond his strength, his compassion, and his thoughtfulness, there was also a side to Tom that many surely remember—his ability to have fun.  In his younger years this included roller skating—not just rolling around the rink, but as I found out yesterday, gracefully dancing on wheels, skating backwards, and going in circles.  It was during these younger years that he caught the attention of a young nurse-in-training, named Maryann Watts.  They got married, raised two great kids, and established a relationship built upon dependability, loyalty, and commitment.  Maryann knew she could count on Tommy, and that without judgment, he would provide what she needed.  And Tommy knew that Maryann would always be by his side, loyally committed, no matter the circumstances.  I won’t give you details about the circumstances of Tommy’s last 5 weeks on earth spent in the hospital in St. Louis.  But I will tell you this: the loyalty and commitment between these two was never stronger.  For 5 grueling weeks, as Tommy fought, Maryann remained vigilant and hopeful, literally never leaving his side.  In moments of despair, Tommy’s consolation was Maryann.  He knew she would do everything she could to keep him alive, keep him hopeful, and keep him comfortable.  And she did do everything, and more.  Every minute of every day.

We’ll all remember Tommy in different ways, and recall the way he enriched our lives.  Coach put this nicely, “Tom Hayes is probably the only person I have known that I could sit in a boat with for hours with very few words exchanged and feel perfectly comfortable with the silence.” I count myself lucky, because I live with five people whom he loved deeply, who carry his good blood and a portion of his good spirit with them.  Each day, they remind me of him.  In my wife, his daughter Lori, I see all that is good in him.  Strength, kindness, a quiet dignity that like Tommy, speaks measures without saying a word.  Lori knows how to throw a baseball correctly, because of Tommy.  Lori is loyal and dependable, just like Tommy.  In Brennan, the grandson he loved, I see his thoughtfulness.  His desire to be inclusive of all people in all situations.  In Zoe, his first granddaughter, I see his kindness.  His willingness to help others even when it might not be convenient.  In Ava, I see his determination.  Setting his mind to something, and focusing with intensity and strength.  And in Hayzel, Tommy’s smile.  Mouth open wide, tilting the head back a bit, enjoying the moment and the people in that moment.

* Each of us makes sense of death in different ways.  Religion, art, and our own consciousness inform our ideas and beliefs about what happens to those who pass on. We are left behind, but where do they go?  What is it like?  Today more specifically, we ask, “Where is Tom Hayes?  Where is he?  What is it like?”  I can offer nothing more definitive than what has already been presented by Father Tom, Father Nelson, and the readings, but I can tell you what I choose to believe, and paint a picture of what I hope is happening.  I believe in a place where we reunite with those who passed before us.  I believe that these reunions are real and defined by relief.  Relief that what is ‘real’ is not confined to life on earth, but that ‘real life’ continues, in some incredible way, after this one.  And so, just as I could imagine Tom up in Canada, I can imagine him up in Heaven.  Today, I imagine the grandfather of my children, this great man, Tom Hayes, patiently floating along crystal clear water in a glass bottom boat. He is free of pain and full of joy.  He wears a hat on his head and a smile on his face.  In front of him in the boat sits his father Virgil.  Behind him, JT.  Between the three of them, they’ll polish off plenty of Natural Light by the end of the day, and have a few perfectly fried pieces of fish to eat for dinner.  They don’t say much, but they look down upon us, and see us looking up at them.  They know that one day, we too will be ready to join them.  But they are in no hurry.   They row themselves slowly through eternity, and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes. 

* some of the imagery of Tommy up in Heaven was inspired by the beautiful Billy Collins poem, "The Dead."