Some memories of Tom Buck – Coleman, Texas
(Tommy Leon Buck, September 17, 1952 – June 22, 1999)
Tom Buck lived on a ranch in west Texas under the big sky country near
Coleman.
His ranch had the look of both failure and promise. Failure that was reflected by the sun in the
still-shiny chrome and cracked mirrors of the classic and eccentric collection
of cars, trucks and old appliances his dad had left scattered in the growing
weeds around the acres and acres of ranch land.
Promise in that when Tom wasn’t depressed, he talked about solid,
sensible plans – leasing to hunters, farming and ranching - to make enough
money to keep the ranch running.
At times his hopes were as tall and wild as the forgotten
okra in his garden next to his house. (That okra was impossible to chew – a hog
couldn’t chew ‘em.)
On his good days, Tom had a smile you couldn’t help but
return and a twinkle in his eyes that went straight to your heart. But I knew that twinkle shared a place in his
heart with a pain that would never find words; yet, over the years, pain felt
that deeply festers like a thorn and it showed up in his body in the form of
ulcers, headaches, and finally death.
He lived the last years of his life wrapped in depression
and a bathrobe. By both choice and circumstance, Tom was locked into a life of
loneliness.
Tom loved to cook and smoke pot. He cooked using black, well-seasoned iron
pots.
He loved to cook beans…a big pot of unsalted pinto
beans…cornbread, fresh back strap and dove when in season. For a while he made
cobblers…from peach to German chocolate. He smoked using a crusted, scary-looking 12”
tall bong which, on my braver days, I would accept a toke but regret it when a
week later I had his cold. Usually, I
just rolled one for myself.
It was a toss of the coin whether the pot he smoked would
inspire his tall, stocky body to go outside and tackle one of his many
neglected projects or make him feel the need to go take a nap…a long nap.
I remember sitting outside under the protection of a star-studded
night sky, tending to food on the grill, sipping a couple of fingers worth of
good scotch on ice while Tom and my husband, John Moler, sat around Tom’s
kitchen table trading barbs and one-upping each other, both landing on laughter
– comforting laughter that filtered out the screen on the back door leaving me
feeling included, not ignored. I had the
company of anywhere from 7 to 8 perpetually hungry and definitely skinny
cats. Tom and I often battled over why
he wouldn’t feed the cats more often. He
said they got fed once a day and that was enough. In the winter, he would allow one cat in to
warm by the fire and he would hold and stroke that cat.
The 4 hour drive from Austin
to Coleman was like a spiritual balm – soothing the weary mind and eyes that
were tired of office buildings and traffic.
So pretty was the drive through the hill country that both mental and
physical stress were relieved. The drive
felt more like a week-long sail on the water than just four or five hours on
asphalt.
I loved reaching the town of Brady.
I loved seeing the rodeo banner over the main street. The courthouse, the cowboys, and the mural on
the taxidermy shop were friendly sights for me.
Plus, it meant we were only one hour from Tom’s place. It was hard to decide what part of the drive
was the prettiest – for me, the road north of Brady toward Santa Anna and
Coleman was my favorite part because of the The Mesa – I capitalize The Mesa
because it meant so much to me. It was
the same mesa I’d been drawing or doodling for long as I can remember even
before I ever laid eyes on it. There it
was…in the setting light of the western sky - it’s soft, descending profile,
majestic and sweet in ways that whispered to my soul and put me in awe and
wonder. I knew I looked at true
beauty. I would watch it for as long as
it was in view as we drove on toward Tom’s.
We took the cutoff from Hwy 283 onto FM 1026 and drove
through little no-nothin’ towns...Shields, Gouldbusk, Mozelle, and Fisk…before
reaching Tom’s place. When we arrived at
Tom’s gate, I remember how it felt every, single time – happy and smiling. Then the short drive around the outbuildings
and barn to his back yard. Tom always
waited up for us if we came in later in the evening. Usually there was something cooking on his
stovetop for us. Moments of bliss came after
the car lights were off; the darkness surrounded you and when you looked up,
the sky was full of stars – pinpoints of light – the Milky Way sometimes –
sights you don’t see in towns full of artificial light. At Tom’s….just the porch light and a few of
Tom’s house lights were turned on.
Tom was a keyboard musician and built a recording studio
next to his house. Often, at night when
we visited, the guys (my husband included) would make music. Rock and roll in the night. Guitar riffs racing by and no doubt received
by dancing angels (or aliens) up in that sparkling night sky.
Tom Buck was a friend of mine.
Kathryn Susan DeWald Sublett
May 2006
