Tom in SCA garb playing the herald For all this, my relationship with Tom was simply as a friend. We had our first introduction at an SCA meeting at the University of Georgia, and crossed paths again a few days later at a Toli practice, also at the University of Georgia. More on SCA and Toli in posts to follow. This was my first week at UGA as an undergraduate student. Tom had graduated years earlier with a Master's in English, but the impish inclination in Tom was powerful and he never left the liberal and youthful world of the college campus behind. I had no inkling of Tom's accomplishments when I met him. Later on, his accomplishments never played a role in our friendship. What I loved about Tom was his free spirit, his odd courage, and the fact that he was just simply a gentle and pleasant person. Tom had a small catalogue of phobia's, including driving cars. (So odd considering how much he loved the things. When driving, Tom would take massive detours to avoid making left turns.) Despite Tom's fears, on our second meeting, Tom was playing Toli, one of the more violent sports on the planet. Physical prowess was never one of Tom's strong points. When we first met he was a small, rather soft looking, middle aged man with a beer gut. I thought it was so cool that he still had the gumption to play such a physical and dangerous sport.
Truth be told, Tom took an interest in me right away. I had a Viking name and a Viking appearance, complete with long, blonde hair. I must have looked like a character from one of his books come to life. Tom often called me Viking Boy. Whatever the circumstances of meeting, we became close friends, and it was a friendship that never included much of anything beyond sitting down to talk about life. Despite having so many parallel interests (cars not included) we never played role playing games together, we did very little SCA activity together, we didn't discuss literature, or fantasy novels, or even JRR Tolkein. I olnly read one of Tom's books, his first one, Windmaster's Bane. Although we both loved traveling, we only took one trip together, which was to pick up a car my twin brother had abandoned in Mississippi. We took a train down and drove the car back to Georgia. With Toli, Tom showed up less and less as the years went on. He didn't have health insurance. So, Tom and I were just friends, kindred spirits I suppose. We clicked in the most ordinary of ways. Tom was one of my favorite people. But, as Tom said once, we never found ourselves on the same page. We never really did. I was one of his odd-ball younger friends that would show up out of the blue, then disappear just a quickly. He also called me Chaos Boy, both because of my personality, but also on account of the chaos I threw his life into when I made my random visits. We both wanted a closer or more grounded friendship, but these thoughts occurred at different times and on different assumptions between us.
Windmaster's Bane, by Tom Deitz
There is much more to be said about Tom. For now I will just add one memory that really describes Tom's character. When visiting him once in his home town of Young Harris, Tom and I were shooting the breeze as usual. Tom was drinking a beer, expanding (or improving upon) the gut, and I was probably drinking tap water since I don't drink alcohol and Tom never had any beverages in his house other than beer and tap water. Anyhow, Tom told me about this encounter he had had earlier that day in the little post office up the street. Tom was fetching his mail out of his PO box, and chatting with whoever else was there, as was pretty typical for Tom. One middle aged southern belle who had driven up from Atlanta for the weekend appreciated Tom's friendliness and found fit to tell him how awful it was that Georgia was getting overwhelmed by Mexicans and you couldn't hardly go anywhere where now without seeing a Mexican. She was about to say more, but Tom cut her short with a passionate oratory. How dare she think he shared her ignorant and racist views just because he was white and had a Southern accent. He could only wish that there were more Mexicans or El Salvadorans or anyone of some foreign extract in his home town. Every time he ate out (nearly every night really) Tom went to the Mexican restaurant in Hiawasee, or the Thai restaurant in Hiawasee, because the restaurant owners and their families were so friendly, open minded, hard working, and knowledgeable about the world, and their food tasted better to boot. having said his fill, Tom turned around and walked out, leaving her gap mouthed and fumbling for some sort of response.
That was Tom, in his own way brave and fierce, an advocate of free thinking, diversity, and just keeping life as interesting as possible. He lived what he believed in. He also told me it was not great form to end sentences with prepositions. Now every time I end prepositionally, I am reminded that I am not at all a good writer. And I remember Tom.
Tom died of heart failure a few years ago, in 2009, surprisingly young since all of his elder kin folk lived into the 90's or beyond. I think Tom's mother even outlived him.
This is a link to an exhibit celebrating Tom's life and work. I miss Tom. He had such a great impact on my life in college, a very formative time. I miss Tom because he was such a good friend.
http://www.libs.uga.edu/hargrett/pexhibit/deitz/index.html
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