Thom
One of the hardest parts of growing older is that you lose those you love along the way. It's inevitable. It's painful. It's not fair. But it is what it is. I have learned that each time someone leaves us we grieve differently. At least I do. Losing my Mom and my Dad was much different than losing my wife. Much different, but exquisitely painful none the less. Sometimes when we lose some one close to us, we never really grieve for them because we can only deny the pain since our hearts just can't take it. So we stuff our feelings in the pit of our gut and move on.......
Let me tell you about Thom. Thom is my brother....ooops...Thom WAS my brother. And he is dead. Gone. And much too early in his life. And mine. And I really have not grieved for him. Until now.
Thomas Dale White, was born the second of three sons to our Mom & Dad on May 29, 1947. I am the youngest of the three. We three boys were born two years apart, and we were blessed with a family structure quite like the "Leave it to Beaver" & "Ozzie & Harriet" sort of families. Oh, ours was not an ideal, perfect family; we had our moments where we argued, fought, mis-behaved, got spanked, made mistakes, disappointed one another and challenged the patience of each other. But there was never any doubt that there was love in the house and we grew up in a secure, nurturing environment. We were lucky. And blessed.
Like many younger brothers, I worshipped Tommy, and I wanted to be just like him. And I tried. And I failed. Tom always had a self confidence that I lacked. He was always popular among his peers. And the girls. In high school, he was an athlete. He was the starting running back on the varsity football team, and he was an outstanding pole vaulter, setting many school records. He even placed in the California State Track Meet in his senior year. He was my hero. He was my big brother.
When I entered high school, a pimply faced adolescent, my brother protected me and paved my way for acceptance in our school. I was too small for football, but I joined the track team and, you guessed it, became a pole vaulter, just like him. I will never forget sitting at the dinner table with my family, when Thom and my Dad were talking about his goal to clear the bar at 14 feet. Back in 1965, the world record for the event was right at 17 feet, and very few high school vaulters could clear 14 feet. Very few. My father was always into helping us set goals, and that night, he made a bet with Thom that he couldn't clear 14 feet while still in high school. And it had to be in a track meet, and not just in practice. He was a junior at the time and his best was 13 feet. Every INCH in pole vaulting is a barrier and a great achievement when you can "raise the bar" another inch. My Father, knowing that Thom could never jump that high, bet him a brand new Austin Healey Sprite automobile if he succeded. Secure in the belief that he had made a safe bet, we moved on to other dinner time conversations.
Tommy got to work, and to make a long story short, he cleared 14' 1" in a meet against another school in our district. Our Father, a man of his word, not only praised him, but they went out that very night and came home with a brand new red 1965 Austin Healy Sprite. Now, my folks were not wealthy, we were comfortable. Buying that car was not an easy thing for my Dad to do. But it was a promise and a commitment, and he lived up to that. And Thom was the proud, new owner of the coolest car on campus.
My Dad had to be fair and make the same bet with me, and he even used to spend much time coaching me in my effort to be like my big brother and get my car. While I know now that he was probably hoping that he would not have to make good on such a bet, my Dad worked hard to help me achieve the goal. In my senior year, I cleared 13' 8" in the league meet, missing my goal by four measely inches. But my Father telling me that he was proud of me meant more to me than any damned car ever could have.
But back to Thom. He earned a football scholorship to Oregon State University, and one day while practicing in preparation for his first collegiate game, he was tackled and blew out his right knee. After his surgery, he was unable to compete in sports again.
The pain of his injury was treated with a vaiety of pain medications, and was the genesis of his battle with addiction that ultimately claimed his life. He got involved in all of the recreational drugs of the day, and continued the abuse throughout his tortured life. Thom was a gifted guitar player and played in a band that used to tour with the group "The Turtles". He hung out with some pretty big names of the day as well. He ultimately met the evilness of the drug we call "Heroin". I never understood what "hero" had to do with heroin and I don't to this day. That shit took my brother away and you bet I'm PISSED. Time for a break....I'll be right back.........
I'm back. Whew.....I remember in about 1987, I went to Thom's house and I found him strung out pretty badly. He was delirious and hallucinating. I got him to Stanford University Medical Center to try to get him some help. From then on, he was in and out of treatment, relapsing and then recovering and repeating the cycle. He was somewhat successful in the real estate business and he bought himself a beautiful Harley Davidson Limited Edition. That was his reward for one year of being "clean".
On July 3, 1993, I was in Lancaster, California, meeting my new in-laws; Barbara's family. And the phone rang. It was for me. It was Tommy's friend Randy, calling to let me know that my brother had been killed in a crash on his Harley up in the mountains. When we brought him home, and we brought his bike and saddlebags, I found a "rig" in his bag. That fucking heroin had got back at him and the autopsy confirmed it. My big brother; my hero was 46 years old. And gone. And I never really grieved for him until now.
I want to thank all who read this for taking the time. And I apologize for the vulgarity. But if anything justifies vulgarity, heroin is it. Love you guys, and Thom, I love you, my brother..................
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CGHdUk8apmk&feature=related
I know your lifeOn earth was troubledAnd only you could know the painYou weren't afraid to face the devilYou were no stranger to the rainGo rest high on that mountainSon, you work on earth is doneGo to heaven a shoutin'Love for the Father and SonOh, how we cried the day you left usWe gathered round your grave to grieveI wish I could see the angels facesWhen they hear your sweet voice singGo rest high on that mountainSon, you work on earth is doneGo to heaven a shoutin'Love for the Father and Son
Let me tell you about Thom. Thom is my brother....ooops...Thom WAS my brother. And he is dead. Gone. And much too early in his life. And mine. And I really have not grieved for him. Until now.
Thomas Dale White, was born the second of three sons to our Mom & Dad on May 29, 1947. I am the youngest of the three. We three boys were born two years apart, and we were blessed with a family structure quite like the "Leave it to Beaver" & "Ozzie & Harriet" sort of families. Oh, ours was not an ideal, perfect family; we had our moments where we argued, fought, mis-behaved, got spanked, made mistakes, disappointed one another and challenged the patience of each other. But there was never any doubt that there was love in the house and we grew up in a secure, nurturing environment. We were lucky. And blessed.
Like many younger brothers, I worshipped Tommy, and I wanted to be just like him. And I tried. And I failed. Tom always had a self confidence that I lacked. He was always popular among his peers. And the girls. In high school, he was an athlete. He was the starting running back on the varsity football team, and he was an outstanding pole vaulter, setting many school records. He even placed in the California State Track Meet in his senior year. He was my hero. He was my big brother.
When I entered high school, a pimply faced adolescent, my brother protected me and paved my way for acceptance in our school. I was too small for football, but I joined the track team and, you guessed it, became a pole vaulter, just like him. I will never forget sitting at the dinner table with my family, when Thom and my Dad were talking about his goal to clear the bar at 14 feet. Back in 1965, the world record for the event was right at 17 feet, and very few high school vaulters could clear 14 feet. Very few. My father was always into helping us set goals, and that night, he made a bet with Thom that he couldn't clear 14 feet while still in high school. And it had to be in a track meet, and not just in practice. He was a junior at the time and his best was 13 feet. Every INCH in pole vaulting is a barrier and a great achievement when you can "raise the bar" another inch. My Father, knowing that Thom could never jump that high, bet him a brand new Austin Healey Sprite automobile if he succeded. Secure in the belief that he had made a safe bet, we moved on to other dinner time conversations.
Tommy got to work, and to make a long story short, he cleared 14' 1" in a meet against another school in our district. Our Father, a man of his word, not only praised him, but they went out that very night and came home with a brand new red 1965 Austin Healy Sprite. Now, my folks were not wealthy, we were comfortable. Buying that car was not an easy thing for my Dad to do. But it was a promise and a commitment, and he lived up to that. And Thom was the proud, new owner of the coolest car on campus.
My Dad had to be fair and make the same bet with me, and he even used to spend much time coaching me in my effort to be like my big brother and get my car. While I know now that he was probably hoping that he would not have to make good on such a bet, my Dad worked hard to help me achieve the goal. In my senior year, I cleared 13' 8" in the league meet, missing my goal by four measely inches. But my Father telling me that he was proud of me meant more to me than any damned car ever could have.
But back to Thom. He earned a football scholorship to Oregon State University, and one day while practicing in preparation for his first collegiate game, he was tackled and blew out his right knee. After his surgery, he was unable to compete in sports again.
The pain of his injury was treated with a vaiety of pain medications, and was the genesis of his battle with addiction that ultimately claimed his life. He got involved in all of the recreational drugs of the day, and continued the abuse throughout his tortured life. Thom was a gifted guitar player and played in a band that used to tour with the group "The Turtles". He hung out with some pretty big names of the day as well. He ultimately met the evilness of the drug we call "Heroin". I never understood what "hero" had to do with heroin and I don't to this day. That shit took my brother away and you bet I'm PISSED. Time for a break....I'll be right back.........
I'm back. Whew.....I remember in about 1987, I went to Thom's house and I found him strung out pretty badly. He was delirious and hallucinating. I got him to Stanford University Medical Center to try to get him some help. From then on, he was in and out of treatment, relapsing and then recovering and repeating the cycle. He was somewhat successful in the real estate business and he bought himself a beautiful Harley Davidson Limited Edition. That was his reward for one year of being "clean".
On July 3, 1993, I was in Lancaster, California, meeting my new in-laws; Barbara's family. And the phone rang. It was for me. It was Tommy's friend Randy, calling to let me know that my brother had been killed in a crash on his Harley up in the mountains. When we brought him home, and we brought his bike and saddlebags, I found a "rig" in his bag. That fucking heroin had got back at him and the autopsy confirmed it. My big brother; my hero was 46 years old. And gone. And I never really grieved for him until now.
I want to thank all who read this for taking the time. And I apologize for the vulgarity. But if anything justifies vulgarity, heroin is it. Love you guys, and Thom, I love you, my brother..................
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CGHdUk8apmk&feature=related
I know your lifeOn earth was troubledAnd only you could know the painYou weren't afraid to face the devilYou were no stranger to the rainGo rest high on that mountainSon, you work on earth is doneGo to heaven a shoutin'Love for the Father and SonOh, how we cried the day you left usWe gathered round your grave to grieveI wish I could see the angels facesWhen they hear your sweet voice singGo rest high on that mountainSon, you work on earth is doneGo to heaven a shoutin'Love for the Father and Son
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