Tom Canavan was born in West Rutland and died at Rutland Health and Rehab during the first major outbreak of the fall wave of Covid-19. At 94, Canavan had lived through the Great Depression and served in the Navy during World War II. His stint in Guam during the war was the only time he lived outside of Vermont. Debbie Holmes, Canavan’s daughter, said his experiences left her father quiet and introspective, but he was “perfectly content.”
Debbie Holmes: He didn’t speak much. But when he did, he would come up with some really funny one-liners, or he always had some good advice for us.
One of the last conversations we had was our last Zoom meeting before he died. I was telling him how we were trying to get him a cellphone. There were no phones at the nursing home; it was driving us crazy. I said, “Dad, what about if we get you a cellphone? Do you think you know how to use it?” And he just looked at me and said, “My mouth.” You know — I talk, I use my mouth. And then I’m like, “Oh, he’s just being a smart aleck again.”
He grew up in a poor family during the Depression. He used to tell us that his family was so poor that they couldn’t even afford ice for the icebox, whereas other people could at least afford five cents for a big chunk of ice.
He worked at the Howe Scale Company for 35 years, in the foundry. The man never missed a day of work. He used to work up to three jobs just to support the family — there were four of us kids and my mom.
He would do whatever we wanted. He used to make a skating rink in the yard. He taught us how to ride bikes, he taught us to tie our shoes. I remember that distinctly: 3 years old, I remember him teaching me how to tie my little red sneakers. He used to fix our toys and help us with homework, all the things that fathers do. Good fathers, anyway.
I used to love to be in the garden with him. He had a vegetable garden every year, and flower gardens. I would always hang out with him. He would never hardly speak, but it was just nice being with him. I could tell he really was at peace.
He was a perfectionist. He remodeled our whole house, from floors to ceilings — he did it all himself, and he learned it on his own. He would measure something 10 times and make sure it was exactly right.
And he would expect that from us. When I was little, I’d be like, “Daddy, look at my drawing.” And he had to just look at it, and then he’d be like, “Huh, well, that line right there is a little off.” Thinking about him, I realized that he’s actually really helped me a lot. He used to complain if we didn’t finish things, so that was always in the back of my head. I became obsessed with making sure if I started something, I would finish it.
Four years ago, on his 90th birthday, I didn’t know what to get him. My brother had just recently found this really nice picture of my mother. It was black and white, and she was wearing a white bathing suit, sunning herself in a rowboat, and I believe my father was taking it. I had the inspiration to paint it for his birthday. When I gave it to him, it felt like I was giving him back my mother. She had passed away, and he was so lonely without her. And that was the first painting that he ever liked that I did. He just loved it. He would tell everybody, “Look what my daughter made for me,” when they come to visit. And I’m like, “Oh my god, I finally did it.”
My mother died in 2012. He didn’t want anybody living with him, right up to the end. We were always worried about him at home. For the most part, he was doing good. But then in the past year, at midnight, he ended up going next door to the neighbors’ and said, “You know, I don’t know how I got here. And I think I’m locked out of the house. Can you help me?” That was the beginning of trying to figure out how to help him. He agreed that, yes, it’s time I could go into a nursing home.
Canavan moved into Rutland Health and Rehab on Sept. 24, just weeks before the outbreak there began.
In the beginning of the pandemic, we’re watching people and we’re like, “Oh, no, this is horrible, these poor families,” and can’t believe people are dying and they can’t have their family there. But it was so good here in Vermont when we put him in. We’re like, “Yay, Vermont doesn’t have any Covid, hardly any.” And so we just thought, “He’s going to be safe there.” And he agreed. He wasn’t thrilled with going, but he knew that it was time. And then we’re like, “Oh my god, are you kidding me?” — that there’s Covid right on his floor, of all the places. It was just surreal.
The night before he died, I was so grateful that one of the aides called us. We were just at home twiddling our thumbs. And then at eight o’clock at night, the aide said that he seems a little restless, and she thought that it would be good if we talked more. We’re like, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I suggested a Zoom meeting, and she didn’t know how. So I said, “Well, I’ll teach you how to set it up.” Only my brother and I could do it. So at least we got to see him and he got to see us.
The next morning, they were going to do a Zoom meeting with us, and I was waiting for them. They called me to say he passed away before we could get to the Zoom meeting.
The other day I sat down to paint, and I went to call him. I would always take a break and call him to check in on him. I just thought for a second, “Oh, I wonder how dad’s doing.” It’s starting to hit me now.
I’m going to make a painting of him now. I ended up taking my painting home that I made for him of my mom, and I’m going to put it next to that.
Tom Canavan died at Rutland Health and Rehab on Nov. 22, 2020. He was 94 years old.
—As told to Mike Dougherty
Read more remembrances of Vermonters lost to the coronavirus.
