Eulogy for Tony Thomas

by Andrea Thomas

What I remember most about my father was making him laugh. I'm sure most of you think of my dad as a serious, dignified gentleman. Indeed he was, but there was another, lighter side of Tony Thomas. It was my quest, in fact, my duty to bring it out. From the earliest age it seemed I inspired the absurd in my father. He used to get into trouble with my mother for chasing me around the house scaring the wits out of me by acting like an escaped lunatic.

Neither one of use was able to engage in serious conversation for long before the other would break it up. If my dad was trying to make a serious point and was reaching a dramatic climax, I would be compelled to interject in a proper English accent, "Oh really father!" Then dad would say with mock indignation, "There you go! Always talking the mickey out of me!" I too was subject to having the wind removed from my sails. If I was approaching the melodramatic, my father would interrupt me at the most inopportune time to say in a Brooklyn accent, "Really kid? Tell me about it."

My dad and I shared many laughs. This often became contagious. We would be walking down the street and all of a sudden dad would take my hand and we would start skipping and giggling until we had exhausted ourselves. I think the best thing about my dad's humor was that it was totally out of the blue.

My father was a man of great contrast. I'm sure most of you associate my father's writing with Hollywood history, film music liner notes and interviews with celebrities. In addition to all of this factual writing, my dad had incredible imagination. Not only did he write plays and song lyrics, but he had a mighty repertoire of children's stories. Every night he would sit at the edge of my bed and tell me a new adventure trying to come up with fresh inventive plots for hippos tramping the river banks and monkeys swinging through the trees. I imagine there are only so many things a hippo can do. Dad told me recently that he used to rack his brain trying to come up with new story ideas.

Of all the people I've know, my dad was most excited about stretching the limits of the mind. I'd come home from high school frustrated with an algebra problem going on about how pointless these problems were and dad would tell me how important it was to exercise the mind and that the brain needs these kinds of challenges in order to grow and expand its capacity. I bet he didn't know how to do the math, but he sure made a compelling argument for trying.

Dedication, determination and discipline were the guiding principles of my father's life. He came to Canada from England with $40 in his pocket determined to make a name for himself. He certainly did. It used to frustrate me that whenever I wanted to talk to dad he'd be sitting at that blasted typewriter pounding away. "Now now, I'm in the middle of a thought," he'd say. He was always in the middle of a thought. On the other hand, how else could one write thirty books in thirty years? My dad was driven. I've never known anyone else who could sit down and just write for eight hours (with brief interruptions for meals of course). I really respected my dad's sense of discipline. It's very hard to come by.

I find it incredible and funny that technology completely passed dad by. Electric typewriters, word processors and computers were of no interest to him even though they would have made his task so much easier. He wrote every word on a manual Royal typewriter which sits at his desk to this day. Of course, I'm no one to talk, I write everything by hand. Boy, we Thomases are really in the dark ages!

My father was a tremendous correspondent. He wrote letters to people all over the world (another Thomas tradition). My dad truly practiced the art of letter writing. He wooed many a lady and impressed many a gentleman with his eloquent prose. I used to tease my dad about being a walking dictionary. I once gave him a wonderful little book called The Superior Person's Book of Words. It had words in there I had never heard of! He said "Thank you, sweetheart," and gave it back to me a year later, saying, "Why don't you keep this, honey. I already knew all of these words." No vocabulary problems in this family, thank you.

My father as everyone sitting here must know had a marvelous gift for connecting people on projects. He single- handedly wove a tapestry of talent to perpetuate the memory of such notable and loved friends as: Harry Warren ("Uncle Harry" to us kids), Alfred Newman, Miklos Rosza, Erich Korngold, Hans Salter and I could go on. These people became part of our family and visa-versa. While dad may have seemed very serious and sometimes unapproachable, he was exceptionally loving and tremendously sentimental. In looking through my father's things, we have found the history of a loving, kind, affectionate, compassionate man who made great effort to connect and maintain connections of the mind and heart.

I will always remember my father for his sweetness, for nicknaming my brother The Hootie-Bootie Bird, for carrying me in from the car in his arms when I fell asleep, for visiting his ailing elderly friends every week without fail and for connecting the hearts, minds and souls of all those present here with a common love, bond and respect.

Thank you so much for coming today. I assure you my father is right here in this room enjoying what I will consider "The Greatest Show on Earth."