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Published: Monday, Feb. 20, 2012 / Updated: Monday, Feb. 20, 2012 11:53 AM

Brad Harvey: Tom Crisco’s small frame held big heart

They say good things come in small packages. Without a doubt, that old saying applies to another one of my friends who’s now gone too soon.

Standing not much more than 5 feet tall, Tom P. Crisco, known to most around here as just “Crisco,” was definitely a man small in stature but with enough personality for half a dozen much bigger men.

He could talk your ears off over just about any subject, but you could always count on the fact that, before the conversation was over, it would somehow work its way around to the two biggest loves of his life: fishing and firearms.

I’d love to have a dollar for every minute I’ve spent discussing those two subjects with him. No. Wait. What I should say is I’d love to have a dollar for every minute I spent listening to him tell me about them.

It didn’t matter if you were talking about bream fishing a local farm pond or chasing red drum along the Outer Banks of North Carolina, a marathon discussion was on. If you wanted an answer about how hot you could safely reload a .38-special brass case, he had an answer; and you could always catch a twinkle in his eyes when he spoke of firing automatic weapons during his days in the military.

“Just take me to the beach, put me on a pier and leave me with plenty of bait. I’ll be good. Come back and get me in a week or so,” he once told me. For as much as he meant that as a joke, it actually was the truth, for there was no time in his life that he was happier than when he had a line in the water.

Long divorced and somewhat alone in this world, Crisco found a new family in his adopted hometown of Clover when he became a regular at the Water Tank. Even after giving up drinking a few years back, he continued to frequent the establishment, where he ultimately learned the term “family” can indeed extend beyond the boundaries of actual blood and kinship. But it was a lesson hard learned.

After retiring from Boyd Tire and Appliance, and at a point in his life when he should have finally been able to spend as much time as he wanted with rod or gun in hand, Crisco found himself growing strangely weaker.

A visit to one doctor led to another, until the diagnosis that none of us wants to hear was given. It was cancer. Leukemia, to be exact. But the little big man would not be dismayed and decided to tackle the disease head on.

He spent weeks at a time at Carolinas Medical Center as the doctors filled his veins with the body-weakening poisons that made up his chemotherapy treatments.

While getting one of my own checkups there, I made my first visit to his room to see how he was getting along. I quickly became lost among the many corridors and finally asked a nurse for help in finding his room.

“Who you looking for, honey?” she asked.

“Friend of mine,” I replied. “Name is Tom Crisco.”

“Oh, him,” she said with a smile. “Just head down that hall there. Room is on the right. If you get lost again, just stop and listen. You’ll find him!”

And she was right.

I’ll never forget walking in his room that day. Despite looking extremely frail and just plain beaten down, that old Crisco I’d always known was still there. We talked; or rather, I listened for about an hour until I had to head down to the other end of the facility to take care of my own medical needs.

He was thrilled so many of his friends had been checking on him regularly, and it was easy to tell this was something that made the many weeks he spent there much more bearable.

“I’m hoping to get out of here on Friday,” he said. “I’ll see ya at the bar that night if you’re going.”

“You really are going up there as quick as you get out?” I asked with surprise.

“Well, heck yeah,” he fired back. “I’ve had about all of the lying around that I can stand. There’s prisoners that don’t have it this bad!”

A little over a week ago, Crisco’s doctor informed him the battle of his life was coming to a close, and no more than another week remained.

Instead of crawling into a shell and withdrawing from the world for his final days, he decided the only thing left for him to do was to get to the Water Tank to say goodbye to all of his friends he loved so much.

Regrettably, I didn’t get to see him that day. Later that night, I retrieved a voicemail message that told me what was going on, but at that point, I had missed it altogether. By midweek, Tom P. Crisco was gone.

If any of his Water Tank family is reading this, I hope you all know just how much you meant to him and how much he appreciated everything that was done for him throughout his whole ordeal. Although it’s probably wrong for me to do so because so many did so much, I’m going to go ahead and single out one person who went above and beyond for our pal.

Jimmy Crawford took Crisco under his wing and gave everybody a lesson in what it means to truly be a friend. Without his constant attention to the situation, Crisco’s final months would have been much tougher, and I’m quite sure without his help our little buddy would have given up a long time ago. To you, sir, I’ll gladly raise a glass (at the next Water Tank family reunion, of course).

We’ll all miss you, Crisco. May the lakes of heaven be full and the ammunition plentiful.

Brad Harvey is a freelance writer in Clover. Visit his web site at bradharveyoutdoors.com.