Paul Rumley was a confidante to many, and they knew he’d keep their secrets close. He was curious and conversant, but he was not impressed by pretense or entitlement. He was, in short, the quintessential barkeep, Boston Irish to boot. That much was evident from the moment he spoke.
In the 1820s-vintage brick building tucked behind a (now demolished) gas station on Montpelier’s State Street, Rumley and his brother Tom ran the Thrush Tavern for more than three decades. It was the place where governors, legislators, lobbyists, journalists, state workers and locals crossed paths. An attorney general was known to frequent a booth, as well.
Just a three-minute walk from the east entry to the Statehouse, the Thrush was a convenient watering hole. Maybe too convenient. Legend has it that the Office of the Sergeant at Arms was known to call down to the tavern to summon legislators back for roll-call votes.
So when Rumley’s obituary appeared in Vermont publications last week, it triggered many memories of a bygone era. He was 75 when he died at his Montpelier home on Oct. 10.
A Facebook post by longtime Statehouse lobbyist Allison Crowley captured Rumley’s spirit.
“Paul was always there serving up your favorite beverage with a healthy dose of witty banter, soaked in his thick Boston ‘Medfud’ accent,” Crowley wrote in a tribute that drew more than 100 responses.
Crowley was a second-generation Thrush patron. Her late father, Thomas, a longtime state senator, was among the lawmakers who considered the Thrush a second caucus room of sorts.
The names of those leaving remembrances of Rumley included former Statehouse clerks, lawmakers (past and present), cabinet secretaries, a one-time corrections commissioner and another second generation Thrush-goer, Brendan Cosgrove, who wrote, “Growing up in the Thrush, Paul and Tommy were like uncles to me. Too many stories and memories with Paul to share.”
Perhaps no one was in such close proximity as Chris Graff, who headed up Vermont’s Associated Press bureau, located just one flight up from the Thrush. Graff likened the place to the Cheers bar in Boston, made popular in the 1980s sitcom of the same name, “where everybody knows your name and they’re always glad you came.”
“Paul was either Sam Malone or the first bartender, Coach. SO welcoming and friendly, lover of all things Boston,” Graff recalled in an email last week. After the Thrush had closed its doors in 2008, Graff told a Times Argus reporter, “Whenever we needed a quote from an important state official or legislator, we would just go downstairs.”
Rumley took on other ventures during his Thrush days. While brother Tom tended to the bar and restaurant, Rumley ran the food service at the Statehouse cafeteria for many years. In the legislative off-season, he could be found feeding clientele at the Barre Country Club. And he was a longtime Meals on Wheels provider.
Kelsey Rumley, the younger of Paul Rumley’s two daughters, said her father was shaped by his early years growing up thrifty — and a bit mischievous — on the streets of Medford, Massachusetts, where neighbors were close.
She recalled her father’s stories about walking to school as a kid so that he could save his bus money for the cowboy movies. He’d sit with his cousins in the back of the darkened theater and roll candy down the aisles.
Her father, who initially came to Vermont as a ski bum in the late 1960s, opened the Thrush in 1972. (Yes, it was named after the state bird.)
“It was sort of the gathering place in town. Initially, they wanted it to be a fancier place, but it just became the watering hole for everyone,” she said.
Kelsey and her sister spent time after school helping out at the Thrush, washing dishes and rolling the silverware into napkins. She recalled how her father treated everyone with the same respect, from the powerful pols to the local regulars.
“There was a lunch rush one day and the governor was waiting in line for a table,” she recalled. Her father’s response: “We’re not going to give the governor a table ahead of anyone else.”
There was one seat at the bar reserved with a plaque, not to honor a high-ranking state official but rather to hold the spot for a Thrush regular named Buzz, a state worker who found his second home at the tavern.
“He was a great customer who came in every night, and we were his family,” recalled Tom Rumley, who now lives in New Hampshire.
Tom Rumley remembers governors, including Madeleine Kunin and Dick Snelling, dropping in for lunch (Howard Dean had an aide pick up his lunch to go). Thrush burgers were the draw long before “grass-fed beef” became a known term.
Ralph Wright, the longtime House speaker, was also known to frequent the premises.
“There were great Ralph stories,” Tom recalled. “I have a lot of great stories, none of which are fit for print.”
It was a different time, when tales were told and martinis were poured, Tom Rumley recalled.
“Everybody got along back then. It wasn’t so divisive,” he said. “It just morphed so much over the years.”
What would Tom Rumley want people to know about his brother?
“What I would want people to know is that people have had brothers as good as my brother, but no one had a brother better than my brother,” he said. “He was nonjudgmental, he was selfless. He would help anybody.”
On a visit to see his brother in New Hampshire, Paul Rumley wore a seasoned Thrush sweatshirt, which Tom’s granddaughter immediately took a liking to. Without hesitation, Paul turned it over.
“He would give you the sweatshirt off his back,” Tom Rumley laughed. “Just the kind of guy he was.”
In more recent years, Paul Rumley could be found cooking up breakfast and lunch for patrons at Capitol Grounds Cafe, just two blocks away from where the Thrush once bustled. Although the job kept him busy in the kitchen, he didn’t miss the chance to personally deliver a bagel, along with some of that banter he was known for.
Wiping his hands on his white apron as he hurriedly emerged from the back of the cafe to greet you, he would inevitably pull up a chair for a quick chat. And he always seemed to keep up with Statehouse news.
He stopped working at the cafe after receiving his cancer diagnosis seven years ago, although he remained a steady customer.
