Fare Thee Well, Tom

Ours was a long distance friendship at first simply based on mutual respect for our love of writing and engaging with others doing the same.

We soon discovered that we had a connection beyond that—we both shared the experience of caring for aging parents and the emotional roller coaster that can be. We both had lost our fathers recently enough that the sting of heartbreak was still sharp.

This man would chat you up just to make sure you were okay on any given day. He never knew me in person, either, but that never stopped him from reaching out.

Tom Bradbury was a caring soul.

Certainly it wasn’t only me—each day I would see his engagement with other writers on different Vocal Facebook platforms, offering encouragement, advice or some witty observation.

These comments were something I actively looked for every day. Even those comments directed at others had something to offer anyone else who read them.

I was often amused at his outrage over some challenges on Vocal—who won or didn’t win, how the judging was questionable, who might have been the better choice. I never had the nerve, myself, to call the process into question, but Tom stood up and stood firm.

I don’t think I have ever been as happy for a winner as I was when his story, "What Becomes of the Brokenhearted", took second place in the Day in the Life challenge:

I think my joy for him had more to do with all the things he had said in defense of writers who he believed hadn’t been getting enough attention.

I was one of those writers, and when he asked permission to include me, and a link to one of my stories, in his write up for the Members Only challenge, I was filled with gratitude. I wasn’t sure anyone was reading my stories at all at that point, but he assured me that he’d been keeping an eye on my profile.

Wow. That made my decade.

This story, outlining a plan for a storytelling platform, was a wonderful presentation of a unique idea. I would have loved to see him achieve that goal:

Tom had dived into the unknown with writing, and was becoming quite a notable storyteller with his fiction. I was particularly taken with a fantasy story of his and we discussed possibly getting it published in an anthology at some point. It was a fun read.

I loved reading Tom’s stories of life at the mill, his accidental foray into the life of a shepherd, his dogs and even his scrap-made chicken house. I watched for each story to come out, knowing I would be amused and likely learn something as well.

I harbored a little fantasy of someday visiting the mill and the town attached to the historical place he was so lovingly working to restore.

Seeing the news article and the accompanying photograph of what has become of his home away from home devastated me to the point of speechlessness. I was unable to put a coherent sentence together, even in offering condolences.

I believe the photo in question has been shared multiple times now, so I will not include it here. Just take my word for it: Heartbreaking.

If you had told me a decade ago that a man who lived half a world away from me, a man who never spoke to me with an actual voice, but only through written words, could make such a big impression on me from afar that I would sustain a new hole in my heart because he has departed this dimension, I would have doubted.

Have no doubt—he touched me, as he did many others, from afar, and has left our hearts broken by leaving us.

Tom Bradbury, I will miss you, my dear friend. May you forever Fly High.

My sincerest condolences go out to family and friends.

Do yourself a favor and check out Tom's stories here:

Rest Well, Friend.