Friday, November 4, 2016


Friends up the valley
commissioned Tom to create
a unique home address marker
for their driveway. 

Tom sketched several designs for their 
consideration but when he discovered
several large, partial circles of
recycled 2x2 inch steel square bar 
at his favorite salvage yard,
Tom redesigned the piece to incorporate 
these unique curved pieces. 

 partial circles welded together

When Kathy and John returned to see Tom's
new idea, they realized how perfect it was. 
Their last name begins with 'O'.  
The numbers & fused glass are framed 
and ready to be set into the circle.

John and Kathy helped Tom...

and had some fun, too!

Fused glass by Jess Caudill

John O. and his 'O'. 

Maybe Oprah would like one, too.
Doing my best 'O' pose,


Sunday, April 24, 2016



Several years ago, part of an old saxophone 
made its way to Tom's 'inventory pile'.

That shiny swoop of polished brass
has been patiently waiting for Tom 
to begin making his gift for a special friend
who plays the saxophone with
incredible beauty and grace.

Michael is an amazing musician and a poet 
who always plays in his stocking feet.

He used to just wear everyday 
black 'gold toe' socks.

The first time Margaret heard him play, she knew 
that this extraordinary man needed 
some extraordinary socks
to compliment his inspiring jazz melodies.  

And, so, commenced the search
for the perfect attire for those special toes.  

When Tom finally finished 
Michael's birthday surprise sculpture, 
it, of course, included a pair of
extra special, extra flashy jazzy socks.       

Mr. Socksaphone and Michael

Saxophone Fantasy

When the old man wore his cream-colored suit,
his crocodile shoes and cockatoo-green silk tie
(cinch for the collar of his freshly minted shirt),

the shop girls swirled around like parasols
on a sunny boulevard, and smiled. A subtle
cologne he bought put lights in their eyes,

but they were surprised on leaving the store
to find him there on the corner, giving breath
to the golden instrument-the tenor it was,

the horn that speaks to a passionate heart.
Who was the one who called it obscene,
that swerve of the horn curved upward  

with daisies she put in the bell like a vase?
Who was that dark one leaning against 
the brick wall, smoothing her skirt as she

held up the building? And was there yet
a third one joining this chorus of sighs?
"Old man, old man", she cried. (What was

her name? Can't we make that our refrain?)
Who was this merry one wearing his hat?
"Old man," she sighed, "my sweet old darling,

where'd you learn to play like that?"    
                                    --Michael Stillman 
Spring pollen on my back

Thank you for sharing your poem, Michael.
Yours Truly,