Tom Morse
Tom Morse died this month.
It’s a tragedy. Unthinkable for those who loved him.
His loss reminds us of the importance of community and connection, which in the face of COVID and climate catastrophe, is all we really have.
Tom Morse was the owner of the Morse Farm Maple Sugarworks, a landmark attraction built around maple syrup a few miles from us here in Montpelier. The Morse Farm is a sugarhouse, a creamee stand, and a Christmas tree stop. They sell the best cheese, milk, bread and of course maple candy.
Tom was the umpteenth generation to run the place. I have written about Tom before - about his eloquent plea to all political persuasions to act on climate change to save the maple industry and ourselves.
I guess that Tom was a liberal Republican or a conservative Democrat. He was the kind of guy that didn’t trust the slick or the uber-professional. He was the kind of guy who took a shower at night after a day in the woods, not in the morning before an office job.
As I say, I didn’t know him well. We waved. Talked politics. Checked on each other’s families and wished each other well. We come from different stock. I came from Jersey 30 years ago and adopted Vermont culture. Tom’s been here 1,000 years.
But Tom’s death gives us all a lesson in the value of connection and community. And while his loss won’t affect me explicitly on a daily basis, it breaks a link in the chain. The chain this country is desperately trying to break at the national level with our paralyzed politics and hatred. In Montpelier, Tom Morse was a link in a community chain that made it worthwhile to live here.
The late folk-singer Harry Chapin wrote that “All My Life’s a Circle.’’ That’s the way it can be in Vermont.
Tom played horn in a band with a drummer named Soots. Soots painted our house, every inch of it.
Tom plowed my driveway for a winter. He charged me $20 a shot.
Tom’s wife taught spinning classes downtown before COVID. Tom would sometimes show up, I suspect reluctantly. But he could ride.
Tom’s Dad wrote a column in our local newspaper about history, events in his family and about the sugarhouse. There is not a lot of bling at the Morse Farm. No PR firms or consultants. His Dad lives on the property. Tom lived nearby. It is the ultimate family business.
My daughter-in-law married our son in our backyard. Every guest received a little bottle of syrup and some maple candy from the Morse Farm. She insisted on that. Whenever I saw Tom, I would remind him of her insistence. He liked that.
The Morses used to have a cross-country ski operation at the farm. Best ski deal in Vermont. You saw neighbors there, exchanged gossip and stories. That’s how a community works.
I once skied off-trail over to Tom’s house, hoping to hang out and chew the fat.
A few years ago, he charged me $20 to cut a Christmas tree from the hundreds he planted at his place.
When Tom went missing on a cold night a few weeks ago, cell phones buzzed. Everyone who knew Tom was asking about him. And a very large group it was. We called the local newspaper editor. He would know. We called the local physical trainer. We called Tom’s neighbors. We got on the Facebook page, watching for news as our chain of community grew a little weaker, ready to snap in the cold.
But we failed. Or we were helpless. After two years of COVID, with darkness and cold beginning to envelop us, it is hard to know what to make of Tom Morse’s death. We knew he was ill and hurting. And we didn’t know what to do really. Or at least I didn’t.
And now our community is a little less, a little weaker. Our newspaper is weakened by conglomerates stealing it’s revenue. Our city government struggles to keep up with technology changes and criticism from a never satisfied public. And now the future of the Morse Farm, a very strong link in the chain, where you go for milk and a treat, is in doubt.
We are all diminished a little with the death of Tom Morse. But we must pick up and move ahead, face the demons he faced and be better for having known him.
Read his official obituary here.
