Tom, Part 1

We are collectors of stories. We make stories, we’re part of them, and we are given stories by others. Occasionally, we get to meet someone who feels like they’re fictional. This is the story of Tom, a Montana man plucked straight from a tall tale. We hope you enjoy meeting him as much as we did. 

---

Tom had a laugh that sounded like the mountains. It was gruff, rasping like tumbling stones rolling off a cliffside. It was probably because he smoked, but I’d like to imagine living in the wilderness slowly transforms you. He had blue eyes that twinkled mischievously. His mustache always curled into a grin. His overalls were patched, his jacket had a torn pocket, and his worn hat drooped over his eyes. 

When we first entered the log cabin structure of the Range Rider’s Lodge in Silver Gate, Montana (population 102), Tom was there. He sat in the empty dining area, joking with a sliver-haired woman named Lorie. They welcomed us into their conversation as if we’d known them for years. It was immediately evident that Tom was a rascal. Lorie was more reserved, diplomatically and politely disagreeing when Tom said something a little too politically incorrect. And he definitely said things that were politically incorrect! It was part of his charm, really. Tom was 100% genuine Montana, and that came with “calling things as they are,” as he said.

We were both wearing FFA sweaters that night. Emblazoned on the back in yellow letters read “Learning to do. Doing to learn. Learning to live. Living to serve.” Tom and Lorie appreciated this sentiment. The sweaters served as an excellent conversation starter as we discussed work ethics, careers, and worldviews. At one point, Tom asked, “Where are you guys from? Ohio? We like people from Ohio. You see things the same way we do.” From a man like Tom, this was a compliment. It also opened the door for more political incorrectness. Now that Tom knew that we conformed to his ideals, he thrived with the captive audience we created!

He made an abrupt offer in between wild jokes and stories. “Look, I have this friend who lives down south, right by the border. This friend just brought me up some salsa from down there, some of the good stuff. It’s over there on the counter. Why don’t you go get you some and pull up a chair?”

Tyler and I glanced at each other. Our mothers raised us right; stranger danger is a real thing. But without thinking, I asked, “Is it spicy?”

Tom thought about it for a second. “Mmmm, it’s got a little kick to it. A little sneaky heat to it. But it’s good, you should try it. Seriously, go grab you a chip and try a bit of it.”

I’m not sure why, but Tom had won me over. Maybe it was the Ohio compliment. Maybe it was his raspy laugh. Either way, I didn’t think he was the type to poison salsa and offer it to a few Ohioans. So I walked myself over to the counter, grabbed a chip, and tried the salsa. Tom was right, it was delicious! He called over to me. “I’ve got some ponies in my room if you want one of those too.”

“Some what?” We were both baffled. 

He looked at us like we were stupid. “A pony Coke? Don’t you have those in Ohio?” We laughed awkwardly and shook our heads, still confused. 

Tom coughed as if he were starting an engine, then heaved himself out of his chair. He walked stiffly -probably had bad knees- into his room, which was right off the dining room. After a moment, he emerged with a six-pack of miniature Coke cans. 

He set the pack down on the table and waved a hand at it. “Pony Cokes, see?” He pulled out a can from the plastic rings and popped it open with a fizz.

I was still lost. “Why are do you call them pony Cokes though?” 

Tom looked at me with twinkling eyes. “What are you, from North Dakota or something? They’re called ponies because they’re little! The little ones are ponies and the big ones,” he measured the height of a regular can above the table with his hand, “the big ones… I guess they’re just called regular Cokes. But look, do you want a pony or not?”

Feeling somehow embarrassed, I declined the offer and helped myself to another tortilla chip. 

Tom shrugged. “Alright then, suit yourself. They’re here if you change your mind.” And then, without hesitation, Tom launched into another story.

We quickly learned that this was Tom’s style. He had stories for days, and plenty of jokes if he ever ran out. After about an hour of stories, however, he tried to rein himself in.

“Alright, alright, I’ve done enough talking for tonight. You’re probably tired of listening to me! Enough about me, I want to hear about you. Tell me something interesting about yourself.” His blue eyes twinkled under his bushy eyebrows, expectant for a story.

What do you tell a man who’s lived such a wonderful life? He had just finished us telling us how the school system worked in Wyoming. I couldn’t stop thinking about how bus drivers must drive for hours to pick up kids, or how all schools are required to have fences around the schoolyards to keep out bears. Nor could I stop mulling over Wyoming’s requirement that all licensed teachers know how to shoot a pistol, a rifle, and a shotgun to protect the children from such bears. In light of such a reality, how could anything from our Corn Belt state really interest him? Nonetheless, we volunteered a few hesitant facts about ourselves. To his credit, he did seem interested. He asked a few follow-up questions, which we answered with much less of his well-practiced storytelling air. I don’t know what we said, but Tom was somehow reminded of the time he spent a week with an Amish family in Pennsylvania as a child. Time for another story!

We didn’t mind. In fact, I loved it. Tom was a storyteller at heart, with a mind full of jokes, antecdotes, and ways to pass the time. In many ways, this gave him a sort of allure I was unaccustomed to. Like so many people my age, I find myself falling into social media traps. If I don’t discipline myself, I might scroll on my phone for hours a day. Tom was entirely devoid of this struggle. The town of Silver Gate had no cell reception for social media platforms. If you stood on the tiny front porch of the general store next door, you could borrow their Wi-Fi beamed down from one of Elon Musk’s satellites. This was enough for bare necessities. Facebook? Forget about it. Tom was kind enough to share the lodge’s Wi-Fi password with me so I could text my mom from our room instead of the rainy general store porch. The casual nature with which that he gave it to me was a further indicator that he had no use for modern technology. (I sent Tom an email one time. He still hasn’t responded.)

This is all to say that Tom taught me something important about life. The most memorable experiences you can have with a person have nothing to do with social media or the Internet. Sometimes the best evening of your vacation happens over a bowl of salsa, talking about pony cokes, bears, and Amish families. Tom has lived a colorful life, and I’d like a slice of that. I’m taking it as a reminder to unplug more often, if only so I have better stories to tell!

After that first night of salsa-eating camaraderie, Tom formed a new tradition with us. As we prepared to leave the lodge every morning, his raspy voice would come from behind. 

“Don’t forget! Whatever you do today, do it well.”

We always smiled, thanked him, and promised that we would. 

And we did.