Thomas William Lloyd

The following was written on March 4, 2002 from Trujillo, Peru. I woke up from a dream, which I do not remember, and felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. I did not remember anything of the dream until I started writing on the computer at 5 in the morning. I felt these memories were worth saving:


I am the son of Frank Lamca and Diane Lloyd, but of others, also. I am the (grand) son of Tom Lloyd, who I remember in a white shirt, tie and straw hat. He was wiry and light. With every ounce of his being, he was in charge of wherever he was. I was seven years old when he died. I never remember being anywhere with Pappy Lloyd that I did not feel that he was the boss of it. At A&P, at Rispoli’s greenhouse and most surely at the cottage, he was the center of authority. When we went to the family reunion at “Steven’s Park” now Reservoir Park in Tyrone, Pennsylvania there were other grandfather’s there. But I knew he was in charge. It never seemed to me that he was bossy; just that everyone knew that he was right in all that he said and did.
I remember his walk. It seemed he always knew where he was going. It is not that he walked fast, but he walked with authority. I would reach up to hold his hand and wherever we walked, he knew where he was going. I remember walking with him, a lot.
We walked to Stony Point. He told me that if I ever became lost, to follow the creek down stream. Water always goes to people, and people can get you home. He told me about moss growing on the north side of the tree and that was important (though only if you know which side of the tree you live on). He told me to always find landmarks; to look for those things that are unlike everything else in the woods and pay attention to where they are. When you come down a mountainside, hold on to small trees and rocks to slow you coming down. Years later, I would hear the same things from my father, but I realized that he had heard them from Pap. Oddly, my father had many pap-isms because they hunted together and spent the time together that he did not with his own father.
He and uncle Cec and I went to run the dogs in Pinecroft. I knew that I was in privileged company and got to carry the thermos. We fished at the flood tower just up stream from the bridge at Spruce Creek and we fished upstream from the yellow house in Sinking Valley. He told me that his father was a better fisherman than he, but I knew that he was probably just saying that. I watched everything he did.
He took me to the PRR picnic at Lakemont Park and for years later and until they tore it down, I thought of it as Pappy Lloyd’s park. I really thought that he had some kind of ownership in it. Everybody there seemed to know who he was and knew that it was his park and I was his grandson. I don’t remember a ride, a sound, a taste; I remember him…and bananas, pumpkin pies and chewing gum.