I have so many Tom stories, I thought I would share another one.
It has always bugged me how Tom could look at something and know it wasn’t level. I’m not talking about when something is obviously crooked—I’m talking about microscopic slants that only a level or a wizard could detect.
Tom isn’t a wizard. But I’m not ruling it out.
My stepdad has taught me a lot of things over the years—how to fix stuff, how to stay calm, and how to keep your cool when someone else’s work starts falling apart in your hands. One particular lesson came when I helped Tom with hanging siding on a house.
There are a lot of steps to hanging siding, but none more important than the starter strip—that thin metal rail that goes at the very bottom of the wall. If that thing’s not level, every row after it will be off. And you won’t realize it until the very end, when the corners don’t match up and you’re left standing there wondering how geometry betrayed you.
I had measured. I had used that level several times. OK, a few times. At least I thought I had.
But Tom came by more than once to double-check.
“That bottom row level?” “Yes sir,” I said. “You sure?” “Pretty sure.” “That’s not the same as sure.”
I installed a whole wall. I’m talking like over ten feet. Felt good about it, too. Until I got to the corner—and the siding didn’t meet up at all. I stared at it, hoping magic would happen. Hoping the siding would shift or bend or morph to fit.
It didn’t.
Tom walked by, glanced at the corner, and said,
“It’s not even, is it?” I admitted it wasn’t. “How we gonna fix it?”
I knew the answer, but I didn’t want to say it. I just started taking everything off.
Tom didn’t fuss. Didn’t scold me. Didn’t give me a lecture. He just walked off.
He came back when I was done. Looked it over, nodded, and said,
“Good job.”
He also told my mama what I’d done—but added that I fixed it, and fixed it fast.
That’s Tom. He teaches without fanfare. Doesn’t hand you the answer—lets you live it. It’s not just about siding. It’s about life. Parenting. Character.
I could’ve left that corner. Could’ve said “good enough.” But “good enough” wasn’t good enough for Tom. And now, it’s not good enough for me.
The person who paid us would’ve noticed. I would’ve noticed. And that’s not how you do business. Or life.
I later replaced siding on my own house with no issues—because I remembered that corner. I remembered the quiet way Tom taught me to do it right the first time. A good beginning usually means a great ending.
Unless you’re talking about City of Angels, but that’s a whole other story. Give up heaven just to see your love hit by a log truck the next morning. Every guy in that theater let out a collective grown that was louder than that truck barreling down that hill. Anyway…
And if not the first time, to go back and do it right.
That’s what I hope to pass on to my own kids.
They hear me tell the story of Thomas Edison when they mess up. Another Tom, ironically. Edison said he didn’t make mistakes—he just found ways that didn’t work. I like that. It puts a positive spin on failure.
But when it comes to hanging siding—or doing life—I always circle back to our Tom.
Measure twice.
Learn once.
Because someone is always watching— especially when you fix your own mess.
