Tom Blum

List Tribute To Blum, aka Desi, aka grinder

the man made a mean cup of cowboy coffee. that’s how we ended up talking one sme a zillion years ago. I do not doubt on whatever adventure he’s now embarked upon, he’ll share a cup with his mischievous smirk and steadfast blue eyes to the delight of a new group of soon to be friends

he saved my butt once. I was visiting my parents while they vacationed in orlando, terrible bloody idea, and he offered to swing by and grab me for a ride. couple philometers away, that, but he harangued me until I said yes. we took a ride, no idea where, just to be on the road. he had a silent certainty, a quiet equilibrium on a bike that calmed the soul. we stopped somewhere for food, and I remember realizing I’d have to pull the pretend to go to the bathroom but actually pay the check thing because the daft bastard was trying to buy me lunch on top of going well out of his way to make me smile.

he called me lucy, I called him desi. I’ve absolutely no idea why. if anyone remembers, do find me some campfire and let me know.

he used to send me photos of his pineapples. oh shut up, actual pineapples. man could build anything out of anything, recumbent bicycles, insane camp tent setups, but of growing those ridiculous pineapples he was inordinately proud. we tried to get to mexico together but never could get the timing to work. seems now we never will.

good lesson, that. don’t put off till tomorrow the silliness you could be getting up to today. thanks, dez, for one last poke of wisdom. wind in your pocket, old friend. christ you will be missed.

- Annie

Tome was quiet a guy. On the Baja trip, he rode a dual sport and wouldn't swap out for relief. Although on the long trip back to Tijuana, when we got to the motel, he said "Leave me alone", he took a shower and crawled into bed.
He hiked the entire Appalachian Trail in segments. Modified a wrecked ST1000 into something interesting but utilitarian.

- Carl (rememberer) in Merrilun

I met Tom at BRMC when I attended my first SME (where Carl and Mary hosted me, RTN, ZimBob/Jeff). He was wandering around late, unable to sleep due to the cold in his tent. It was 55F. I had an extra blanket and lent it to him. You would have thought I gave him a great treasure based on his reaction.

Nice fellow, could talk on many topics when you could get him talking. Lost touch with him a few years back.

Thanks for being part of this sabmag bunch, Tom. So many great memories I have from the whole bunch of you Godspeed.

- Haydt, etc.

Des (Blum to you lot) used to send me bits and thoughts from time to time. I've been reading through some in memoriam, and came across this poem that one day arrived in my inbox sans context or allusion. Reckon y'all might appreciate it too

THE CALF-PATH
by Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911)

One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail, as all calves do.

Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bellwether sheep
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bellwethers always do.

And from that day, o'er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made,
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because twas such a crooked path;
But still they followed do not laugh
The first migrations of that calf,
And through this winding wood-way stalked
Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane,
That bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet.
The road became a village street,
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare,
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed that zigzag calf about,
And o'er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They follow still his crooked way,
And lose one hundred years a day,
For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind
Along the calf-paths of the mind,
And work away from sun to sun
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.

They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move;
But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah, many things this tale might teach
But I am not ordained to preach.