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Thomas D. Burke
Class of 1985
The
following eulogy was delivered
by Tom Burke's Holy Cross roommate,
Marty Pappadellis '85, at a Mass
of the Resurrection.
 I met Tom Burke in 1981. And for the last 20 years- more
than half my life - I've considered him my brother. During
the first couple of days as a freshman at Holy Cross, I was
wandering around Clark dorm looking for something to do.
I think I was on the third floor when I heard an acoustic
guitar. I poked my head into the room where the strumming
was coming from, and there he was. Bushy hair brushed straight
back with a little sideburn thing going on. A short-sleeve
T-shirt with a pack of Marlboros in the front pocket. A pair
of Chuck Taylor Converse All-Stars - high-tops. And the guitar
in his hand. We exchanged introductions and, for the last
20 years, I don't think I called him Tom more than a handful
of times. It was always Burkey to me. B-U-R-K-E-Y, in capital
letters. Always. In the months that followed, I met a lot
of people, but Fitzi, Freddie, Hosah, Curry, Burkey and me,
we chose each other. We became brothers.
Last weekend, we were together. We wanted to check out our
old haunts, I think, to feel Burkey among us. We went to
Clark dorm and headed straight for "the Dungeon," the
dorm room where we all spent many hours of our freshman year.
My older brother, Dan, was a DJ at the campus radio station.
One night he dedicated the Warren Zevon song, "Lawyers,
Guns and Money" to the boys in the Dungeon. It was one
of our anthems. The Dungeon is a pool room now. So we shot
pool. And we had a couple of beers. And we told stories-great,
ranting, hilarious, improbable, wild, true stories. Stories
about our days and nights together, when we lived like a
family. Stories that get better every year. And our lovely
wives, our beautiful brides, have heard those tales over
and over, year after year, different versions of the same
memories. But they never complain when we get on a roll.
Julie requested that maybe we could share some of that folklore
with you today. I had the full intention of doing just that.
But the funny thing is, even though I love those crazy stories
and even though they conjure some of the happiest days and
nights of my life, they aren't what make me feel closest
to Burkey.
It's the little things that stand out in my mind. Like,
it's 2 a.m., I'm trying to sleep but dinner at Kimball just
didn't cut it, and the pizza we ordered didn't show up, so
my stomach is rumbling. Burkey, trying to sleep on the bunk
below me, knows it. So he asks, "Hey, Fester, how about
a bowl of your mom's chunky, steaming hot beef stew right
about now?" You see, he knows my weakness. And I respond, "Hey,
Burkey, I think I'd rather a big mound of your mom's homemade
meatballs right about now." I knew his weakness, too.
It's the simple things that help me connect the most to
Burkey's beautiful spirit. Things that you know about a brother.
Did you ever hear him say, "Ssshhhwwweeettt!"? "Ssshhhwwweeettt!" would
come after hitting a deep jump shot or getting some spending
money in the mail or taking a bite out of a big, fat sandwich.
Did you ever see a "Burkey special"? Two slices
of white bread and a pound of meat, stacked real fat and
real tall. You see, Burkey never did anything halfway. Did
you ever watch him guzzle a can of Coca-Cola? He'd pop the
top and his eyes would go wide and, bam, gone. He liked the
bubbles, the way the carbonation sizzled in his throat. And
his crazy eyes. Boy would those eyes light up. He would be
tossing the queen of spades down on you in a game of Hearts,
or plucking away on his guitar, following along with a George
Benson tune, or throwing his whole body into Pac-Man, or
clearing the backgammon board, or dancing. Have you ever
seen Burkey dance? Arms and legs, raw energy, flying in every
direction. Those eyes, it was always in his eyes. The energy,
the joy, the adventure, the daring. Burkey didn't do anything
halfway. He was never down. And he never made excuses, and
he never blamed.
I think it was in our junior year. We weren't taking things
as seriously as we should have been. And Burkey's dad gave
him a choice: Either step up to the plate, do what you're
supposed to do academically, or you're gone. No more Holy
Cross. And Burkey stepped up. And he swung hard like he always
did. And he nailed it. And his grades proved it. Burkey always
swung hard. Never halfway.
Recently, while I was dealing with some health issues,
my sweet wife, Marie, was pretty scared and down. Burkey
called and said to her, "I know you are feeling low
and not in control of the situation but you've got to reach
down and pull yourself up, to take care of our boy. I'm here
for you."
Vintage Burkey.
Burkey didn't change. Burkey the boy is Burkey the man.
The other day, I was looking for a picture of my friend.
Marie found a great one. The holiday season before George
was born, Julie sent a Christmas card decorated with a picture
of her beautiful family. It's a fall day and, on a bench
together, Julie, Burkey, John, Brian and Thomas pose for
the camera. As I admire the picture-Burkey as a citizen,
well-dressed, a husband and family man, successful-I can't
help but notice that Burkey doesn't have any socks on. The
same old Burkey.
Julie, I want to thank you. Our yearly summer gathering
at your place has been a true highlight. To share with your
family and our friends has been special. But, Julie, it's
not just the great summer feasts that I want to thank you
for. In college, the fellas had a standing bet about who
would get married last. Last one to walk down the aisle wins.
You eliminated Burkey early on. I think you found a prince
in the rough and he, in turn, realized what he had found
in you. You made him whole. Because of you, Burkey will live
in me as Tom Burke, family man. Although I truly cherish
all the wild, raving memories I have of Tom, the one that
will stay with me the most happened at the "yearly" just
a few short weeks ago, this past August. We had another great
time at your place. We feasted and we cavorted and we stayed
up late. I woke in the morning, early for me, for a drink
of water and to wash my face in the bathroom that overlooks
your yard. Out the window, there was Tom, up early, pushing
Johnny and Brian on the tree swing. He was talking and they
were laughing. That is how I will remember my brother. Thank
you, Julie.
To Johnnie, Brian, Thomas and George, there is a song by
the band The Jayhawks. It's called "Smile." I love
it. I've been listening to it over and over and over. Especially
one part, a few simple lyrics: "Chin up, chin up. In
your hour of despair. And smile when you're down and out,
find something inside you. Smile when you're down and out,
there's something inside you." Advice your dad would
give. And that something inside of you, that is your dad.
And it always will be.
* * *
The Postcard
By Tom Mudd '85
The white postcard fluttered through the mail slot. For
several hours, it lay there, along with a dunning notice,
some instant recycling and a credit card statement.
It was the white postcard that caught and held my attention,
delivering to me a message from the dim past, caught up in
the garish present.
I kept picking it up, staring at it, fingering it. The
edges were already frayed just a few hours after the mailman
slipped it through the door.
In a sense, the postcard was a challenge, demanding that
I ransack my memory and match a face to a name.
The name was Thomas D. Burke.
The postcard was sent by the alumni association at the
College of the Holy Cross, in Worcester, Mass., where Irish
names are so common that Thomas Burke might as well be John
Smith.
Thomas Burke. Thomas Burke. Wait a minute. Tom Burke? Burkie,
or something like that? Yeah, I think ... No. I thought I
had something, but it's gone.
It took nearly an hour to find the fat purple yearbook I
took with me from Worcester 16 years ago.
When I located it, it opened to the very page on which Thomas
D. Burke's picture appears.
The smile on the face was not the one I remembered, but
similar.
The eyes and the curly hair, though, matched a memory that
had been buried somewhere deep in my mind.
The memory filled me with fond warmth at first, but it
was replaced quickly by an icy stab of grief.
The picture brought him back.
It made me recall a lean young man wearing old jeans, a
T-shirt, the mustard-yellow jacket and bored expression of
workers in the dining hall.
I saw him sitting at one of the long tables to chat with
my roommate. I recalled the slow smile that brightened his
face when my roommate said something funny.
In the weeks and months
to come, I would see that slow smile many more times. On "Easy Street," the
path leading from my dorm to the student center; on the
quad;
in the student pub.
Over our four shared
years on a Massachusetts hilltop, Thomas D. Burke and I
rarely exchanged more than
a "Hey,
Tom" and some small talk. And after we graduated in
June 1985, I hardly thought of him again.
Until the postcard came.
Since then, I've been thinking of what Stalin is supposed
to have said, that one death is a tragedy while a million
are a statistic.
Here in Ireland, a neutral country thousands of miles away
from Ground Zero, I hadn't fully come to grips with the reality
of what happened on Sept. 11
But there was that postcard.
I've learned since then that Tom Burke was working at Cantor
Fitzgerald when the World Trade Center was hit.
The postcard told me he married his college sweetheart,
and they had four boys.
Those boys now occupy my mind, though I have never seen
them.
I want to think they have piercing blue eyes, just like
their daddy's. And I want to think that a day will come when
the youngest of them will sit at a long wooden table and
laugh at a joke made by a funny guy like my old roommate.
Maybe this boy's smile will be every bit as bright as his
father's. But won't there always be at least a trace of sadness
there?
For me, a statistic has become a reality. And all I want
to do is amble down Easy Street and say it once again:
"Hey, Tom."
Tom Mudd lives in a suburb of
Dublin, where he is European bureau chief of Industry
Week magazine. This essay first
appeared in The Baltimore Sun on Oct. 29, 2001. It is reprinted
here courtesy of The Baltimore Sun.
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