In Memory of Tom Stamp: Kenyon’s Keeper of Kenyoniana

This coming weekend, the Kenyon community will be celebrating—on his birthday—a legend whom we lost this past July—Tom Stamp. Formally, he was the retired college historian and keeper of Kenyoniana (a word invented by him to mean caretaker of Kenyon artifacts), as well as the former head of the Office of Public Affairs, as it was known at the time. Tom embodied the spirit of Kenyon in a way that no one else I can think of has or likely will. He was a good friend, and I miss him terribly.

The occasion will break an unofficial Kenyon record: the largest gathering of Kenyon presidents—one present and three past—a factoid I know would tickle Tom greatly, as someone who reveled in Kenyon history with unbridled enthusiasm. I am reminded of Lord Kenyon’s visit (likely to be the last ever) this past spring. Tom wasn’t feeling at all well, but there was no question he would be partaking in the weekend’s events. For Tom, this was his Super Bowl: living Kenyon history.

His health issues during these past couple of decades were notable, but he had always seemed to work through them with the help of his friends. And Tom had an incredible collection of friends. Once, at Riverside Hospital, I witnessed Wendy Singer getting thrown out of the hospital social worker’s office after being completely unsatisfied with their response as to why it was taking so long for Tom to be released. That’s a friend.

Tom maintained high standards and strong opinions on how things should be. I frequently joked that the cause of an earlier heart attack, years ago, surely occurred upon learning that Kenyon’s administration had installed industrial-strength carpet squares in Peirce Lounge—in a festive checkerboard pattern, no less! (Or perhaps not—but for those of us who know him well, we have our suspicions.)

And that’s what I have always loved about Tom: he was strong-willed and cantankerous in the very best sense. Frequently caricatured as moving too slowly in his work, the truth is that Tom was a perfectionist and “good enough” was never good enough for Tom Stamp. I had been back in Gambier only a few days when Tom presented me with his Kenyon Style Sheet, which he had established to formalize and make consistent the way all of us should write in the proper college voice. It was very helpful and I freely offer a copy to anyone who may be interested.

Spending time with Tom was always a joy, and we had a number of traditions. I’m not certain for how many years I’ve helped him set up his Christmas tree, and I know I was his go-to guy for electronic purchases and tech support. We recently ran to Costco together to purchase a new television for his apartment in Pittsburgh. But it was never really about the new laptop, TV, or iPhone—these were just excuses to go on mini-adventures together, with lunch included. He would share the latest Turner Classic Movie he’d rediscovered and I’d share whatever gonzo thing I was consuming at the moment.

Surprise pop-ins were frequent. Earlier this summer, I stopped by his campus office (which he kept, despite being “retired”—ha!) only to find him sitting in his desk chair a mere few inches from the ground, typing with his hands practically above his head. “So what’s going on here?” I asked as I walked through the door. Tom was beyond flummoxed that he could not get his chair adjusted to the correct height again. As it happens, I own the same chair and traded places with him so I could adjust it in one quick maneuver. It’s easily done if you know which knob to grab. You might have thought I had found a cure for the common cold. Tom was elated. Who knows how long he’d been working in that ridiculous position. And my joy at helping him was only compounded when he shared that my husband had been by—and he hadn’t been able to figure it out.

Sometimes, however, the surprise get-togethers were decidedly unpleasant. I got the first phone call from him after his latest heart attack, a while back. That was frightening, but I got to him quickly. Perhaps friendship can be measured in how many times you do a friend the great honor of calling the squad for them? It was more than once, in my case. I did my best to keep Tom safe, but he was a tricky customer. 

On one occasion, I shepherded Tom to the Cleveland Clinic for his check-up and after we were finished, he told me there was a great Italian bakery nearby he’d like to go to before we headed back. I was slightly dubious that this was a good idea, but I drove him there. In one box, he ordered a dozen dessert pastries, and beginning to feel as if I were an accessory to a crime, I finally piped up, “Tom—I can’t imagine this is part of your heart-healthy diet regimen.” And he looked at me and said, “Oh, don’t worry, they freeze wonderfully.”

For me, it was his earlier cardiac scare that was the most jarring. After spending so many overnights at his house during his recovery, it became time to leave him on his own again, and I remained incredibly concerned. I told him a little white lie that I had found an old pair of walkie-talkies in my basement—the kind that can digitally communicate over three miles. You know—like we had in the ’70s. I gave him one to keep at his bedside, and I told him that if he had any trouble, all he had to do was hit this big button on the side—a feature I had specifically researched before making the purchase—and we’d come running.

That night as we were heading to bed, I turned to Marc and said, “I’m going to check in with Tom. Good night, Tom. Tom? You there?” Nothing. Somewhat assured that the margin for human error here was not insignificant, I went to bed planning to follow up the next morning.

Arriving at Tom’s house the next day, I said, “Tom, I called you last night before bed on the walkie-talkie, but you didn’t answer me back.” And he said, “Oh, that’s because I had it on the charging pad in the kitchen.” Classic Tom.

But I did eventually talk him into an Apple Watch and we regularly reviewed the methods for calling for help from his devices. He was a fairly good sport about it—but, after a while, I did get a bit less polite about it all. I mean, we were a few heart attacks in by this point. I know he appreciated it; he just insisted on retaining the right to grumble now and then.

Tom returned these kindnesses (if you can call them that) in spades. Last year, I shared some early chapters of a novel I was writing, asking if he’d offer an opinion on what I was doing. When we later got together to discuss, he confessed that a few pages in, he had to grab a pencil and start marking it up—editing it, essentially. Over the course of the next year or so, he ended up editing the whole thing, chapter by chapter, as I finished them.

It wasn’t just the editing. There’s a lot of Kenyon history in my novel, even if it’s set at the fictitious “Kensington College.” That led to many fascinating discussions. What was truthful? What was fair? And this wasn’t the first time he and I held back-and-forths on similar topics. Back in my volunteer days, he was the author of the many alumni citations I would have to recite in front of throngs of people. He had a habit of including words like “indefatigable”—verbal trainwrecks waiting to happen. It was always about the perfect turn of phrase. You might think that the question of whether something like “P.O. Box” should continue to contain periods in this day and age might be simple, but I assure you—they are not!

I’m so grateful that Tom finished his editing of my novel this past June because it provided the occasion to thank him—really and truly thank him. He had been an enormous help in getting me to the finish line and a fierce advocate for what I was attempting to accomplish. There’s a character in the novel who is a landscape designer and who owns a nursery. In the second-to-last chapter, it is revealed that his last name is Stamp. I asked Tom if he noticed that. He had. And then I asked him if he had any idea why I named that particular character Stamp, and I explained it was because he was the character that helped things to grow.

There’s one other line from the novel I’ll quote here, spoken when a character—a larger-than-life figure—leaves the campus community. “Be sure to put your own unique spin on all that we’re now tasked with carrying forward. He would expect nothing less.”

I say this because Kenyon has not replaced Tom. There is no new college historian. No human repository for remembering all that has happened here so that we might all be intelligent students of history. Perhaps in this climate, budget and otherwise, that’s too much to expect, but I do hope others will join me in this task of carrying Tom’s work and memory forward. We lost the other great champion of the campus aesthetic this year as well. It may be rough-going moving forward in this regard.

But how could we replace someone who was all of these things: Historian, Archivist, Researcher, Writer, Editor, Lecturer, Professor, Tour Guide, Event Planner, Village Council Member, Martini Party Host—and so much more. When Fleetwood Mac decided to tour without Lindsey Buckingham, they needed to hire two musicians in order to find someone who could sing as well as he could and play the guitar as well as he could. I can’t imagine how many people we’d need to approach Tom’s breadth and talent.

Tom passed away at the age of seventy-three, and it’s worth mentioning. Seventy-three is surely too young, but there’s also something so thematically perfect about it. He was a member of the Class of 1973, likely Kenyon’s most profound class—and on this point I feel like I can say this with a certain amount of authority. Much too soon, but also thematically elegant, just like Tom.

Farewell, old friend. Fare thee well.

Pieces of Kenyoniana Honoring Tom…

• Kenyon Remembers Tom Stamp ’73 H’22

• In Tom’s Words, read at the Memorial Service

• Royal Rhodes’ poem FOR THOMAS STAMP – Kenyon ’73

• Video of Tom’s Memorial Service (Vimeo)

• Photos from Tom’s Memorial Service

• Tom Stamp Memorial Program (PDF)

• Tom’s Table (Kenyon Inn tribute)

• Kenyon Collegian article

• Kokosing Farewell, sung by the Kenyon College Chamber Singers (mp3)