I never had the privilege of meeting Tom Douglas. I never set foot on his property or in his house until several weeks after he died. Yet once I walked through his house, his workshop, and his various outbuildings, and I came to know a little bit about Tom, the words "Tom's House" were more to me than just a reference to a property and its owner. Tom was a man of Maine, and his house stood as a testament to the old Maine way of life...when you made do with what you had, figured things out for yourself, and never threw anythng away because it might come in handy some day. Tom was buried in the local cemetery. His gravestone can be seen from his kitchen window. Now, to remember Tom, his friends and family tell the same stories and jokes that he used to tell over and over again. That's Maine. It's still around. In the people. In the houses. In the small towns. In the earth. Maybe you know someone like Tom.
