Thomas James Nielson

Thomas James Nielson was born to Agnes and ‘Bill’ Nielson on January 12, 1932 in the town of Forest Grove, Oregon. His father worked in the woods and the family of four boys and two girls moved to the small town of Detroit, before arriving in Stayton. Even as a child he preferred being barefoot and his mother worked to keep him in school since he didn’t like wearing shoes. He admitted that he spent a lot of time in the hallway for being in trouble with the sisters of the school. In spite of himself and the workload of their family acreage he graduated from high school and having met the love of his life, married and began 70 plus years together with Rosella Heuberger.

The couple has lived in Sublimity, outside Newport (on a bluff above the ocean in an apartment that was really a modified hotel room), in Crescent City, CA, Stayton, and then Sublimity again. He worked by day at the CoOp and built their house on Division St on weekends and evenings. By now they had four children, Ken, Doug, Kay and Lisa. Tom was a licensed electrician and worked on large construction jobs ranging from schools, hospitals, lumber mills and even a nuclear power plant. The surprise of their lives came when Rosella had their fifth child, Sarah. Soon after he found five acres in south Salem and again started building a home. They moved to this home, then into Salem and then to multiple homes in Albany, before moving back to Salem. All counted, 29 moves.

When he retired, his sister Mary Lou suggested he come for a visit in Queen Valley, Arizona. He said when he drove in and crested the hill to see the green golf course surrounded by palm trees and lakes that he had found paradise. He found the most neglected, dilapidated old trailer possible and together they made it shine. They also found many more lifelong friends and spent 19 winters playing golf, cards and celebrating every day at 5 o’clock.

Tom and Rosie moved to retirement living a few years back, survived the isolation of Covid and finally moved to Hillsboro and settled in at The Springs. All who met Tom smiled and enjoyed his company. We shall miss his smile, his appreciation of a good joke, the tenacity of his will and the clearing of his throat. With each retelling of the stories we smile and laugh; digging a basement under the already built house in Sublimity (transmission box and cannery belts), adding a well to that same basement (explosives), finding a second stream in the brambles of five acres (machete and fire), hunting gophers in the yard (chair and shotgun), costume parties and square dances, weekly bridge nights and Fourth of July gatherings… We celebrate a good life, a strong life, a life of plenty in the face of adversity, a life we treasure.

The family requests if you wish to make memorial contributions, to do so to your favorite charity.

Grandpa

How do you measure the quality of a man and the life he lived? Who holds the power to render judgment at your time of passing that it was a life well lived? Some would say that it is for the Lord to decide, or perhaps the job of St. Peter to pass on the word in person. If I could dare to take a stab at it, could I really, clearly measure the life of Thomas Nielson? What yardstick would I use?

It would be unfair to just talk about my experience with my grandfather and assume that it must be congruent with the experience of others. I could not possibly put into words what it meant to be his wife, his son, or his daughter. Or what it meant to be his brother or his sister, let alone his father or his mother. But I do know what it’s like to be his Grandson, and I think perhaps a little bit of all those relationships, helped to shape the kind of Grandfather Thomas Nielson was to me.

My grandfather was a crafty man, and I don’t mean that in a conniving or menacing way… more of a Norm Abrams, meets Red Green, meets that’ll do, or good enough sort of way. From a very young age I can remember him taking a stab at something new constantly. He had held many jobs in his lifetime, but his interests spanned a broad spectrum of professional endeavors. He was never deterred by a problem, but rather, inspired by the opportunity to learn a new skill, work around the issue, or if push came to shove, simply use explosive force to remove the obstacles.

He was a man who knew how to make a little go a long way and found usefulness in things that many others would have overlooked or discarded. He also liked new adventures, as evidenced by the 29+ times he and my grandmother had moved over the years. Always on the hunt for more space, more projects, a good investment, or just a chance to try something new. In my barely remembered years, there was a home with a giant rope swing that would carry you out over the creek in the backyard. There was a house in Downtown Albany, tantalizingly close to both King Kone and Hasty Freeze ice cream on hot summer days. But their house on 53rd street is where my years with Grandpa really stand out

It was a modest home on several acres that included a stand of fir trees and a seasonal pond. It was in this place that I spent many summers in the care and guidance of my grandparents and where I began to understand the value of hard work, ingenuity, and learning from your mistakes. Almost immediately after purchasing the home, Grandpa set to work on projects. Adding a master bedroom and bath and remodeling the interior. A shop was constructed in phases while He created a garden, a greenhouse, a covered patio, and a deck. He was never alone in any of this work, poor Grandma was always involved in keeping him on track and on budget while cleaning up after him constantly.

The Hales were often involved in grandpa’s projects, as were many other family members, coming out for the day or for weekend to raise walls, haul bark, make a burn pile, or pour concrete. I could tell that my Dad loved the work and time spent with a man who was as much a father to him as his own. It was also clear that Grandpa felt the same

way about him and enjoyed the extra set of skilled hands and creative brand of thinking my Dad employed. I find often that I think back on observing these two solving problems together and the things they were able to accomplish even when the solution to the problem was elusive. Their very own brand of Scientific method, employed in unscientific ways… Simply try something and observe the result. Curse a little good-naturedly, adjust and try again. In my Grandpa’s view, you could move mountains with enough persistence and creativity… or a little dynamite.

As I got older, I had a chance to work on a grass seed Farm in Tangent, where Sarah had already been working for several years. It was agreed that I would stay with Grandma and Grandpa for the summer and ride to work with Sarah. I drove combines every day for 6 weeks that summer and earned my first paycheck at the age of 14. The following summer proved a challenge, as I couldn’t yet drive and Sarah had moved on to more stable employment. So as a solution, Grandpa offered to drive me to work instead. As Grandpa was naturally an early riser, 5am being his customary hour of waking, this worked out great. If you have never stayed at the Nielson house before, I can assure you, an alarm clock is not necessary. When Grandpa is awake you’ll know it! From the rattling of pots and pans, the slapping of the morning paper against page, to the constant and distinctive throat clearing, your odds of sleeping in were never in your favor.

On these early mornings before work, he would often make me breakfast. Eggs, potatoes, and sausage were a staple meal, and the way he started almost every day. The local paper in his lap and a cup of coffee in hand as we ate in silence and enjoyed the morning quiet. I see a lot of my son today in this routine, he’s simply not ready for the day until he’s had his morning meal and nobody would want to enjoy his company before he’s had it. Grandpa drove me to work dutifully for the entire summer, and not once to my recollection, complained about it. The next year he trusted me with his Chevy SUV to drive to work on my own. My first real experience with driving a manual transmission and the key to me being allowed to drive seed trucks on the farm that next year and extend my summer work.

Adventure and fun were also high on the list of Grandpa’s priorities. Grandpa bought a VERY used motor home that looked like a food truck covered in corrugated roofing. He gave it a facelift with some leftover house paint (which conveniently camouflaged it on the side of the house of similar color) and cleaned up the interior. It’s aging Chevy big block gave him fits at times, but eventually got us where we wanted to go. And go we did! Into the cascades, to the coastal range, and Eastern Oregon. Always off the beaten path, never insight of another soul and preferable near a stream or river. It was on these trips that Grandpa would treat me to his trusty .22 and 500+ rounds of ammunition. I was free to wander and plink to my heart’s content. He had very few rules outside of basic firearm safety, but rather trusted to my common sense to make good choices and not wander too far. We ate well during these trips, the breakfast routine unbroken, and sandwiches, smoked fish and elk sausage throughout the day as we fished and explored the Oregon wilderness.

He also had a knack for taking kid-inspired ideas to the next level. What about a zipline through the forest? No problem! An earthen berm so we can cross the pond? No problem. A taller gear on the Moped so we can take it off-road through the woods? No problem. You want to build a raft to float the pond? Here is some extra lumber and landscape timbers, go play Huck Finn. He would craft these inventions from things he just had laying around and give license to creativity and free play at will. He was unintimidated by any task and loved to see the end results bring joy to his family and friends.

At the end of the day, the easy way that Grandpa would interact with his family was my favorite. He had an easy smile that seemed to grow broader and brighter, the more family and friends in his presence. He loved to poke the bear, crack jokes, tell stories, and even on occasion to sing about Bill Grogan’s goat at the dinner table. His Pictionary exploits are legendary, and his drawings often considered Not Suitable for the Workplace. He had an unwritten code for the grandkids involving an over-the-top of the glasses look, a clearing of the throat, and a subtle tap of the beer glass by his side. If you wanted to be his favorite for the moment, just look for the sign and fetch him another glass. Grandma was not a fan of his subterfuge however, so stealth was essential if you wanted to maintain your most favored status.

Many who counted Grandpa Tom as a friend, did so for life. He seemed to have a kind of gravity that kept his friends close and his family closer. He loved people and people loved him, simple as that. He was never a man that you wanted to cross or disappoint, but when his piece was said and the wrong was righted, he moved on and didn’t look back. I owe a lot of who I am today to this man and the lessons he taught me. When trying to describe the man who was my Grandpa to others I’m drawn to the words of a poem by Grady Poulard.

“The measure of a man is not determined by his show of outward strength

Or by the volume of his voice

Or by the thunder of his actions

Or of his intellect or academic abilities

It is seen rather in terms of the love that he has for his family and for everyone

The strengths of his commitments

The genuineness of his friendships

The sincerity of his purpose

The quiet courage of his convictions

The fun, laughter, joy, and happiness he gives to his family and to others

His love of life

His patience and his honesty

And his contentment with what he has.”

As I think back on his life and the cherished memories I have with my Grandpa, I feel blessed to have been gifted the chance to be his Grandson. To be a product of the love and family he created, to be a part of his legacy today and in the future.

You can put away the yardstick Lord, this one measures up.