Thomas William Gordon Pratt: Husband. Paterfamilias. Sentimentalist. Small-towner. Born Feb. 20, 1943, in Barrie, Ont.; died Nov. 27, 2023, in Toronto of natural causes; aged 80.
Thomas PrattCourtesy of family
Thomas Pratt was an army kid, the son of Major Gordon Pratt and his wife, Doreen, and the big brother of Lynn. That meant he moved around a lot, skipping across army bases of southwestern Ontario. But when the family settled in Meaford, Tom was home. This municipality on Georgian Bay appealed to him for its simplicity. Years after he’d left, Tom kept Meaford in easy reach. If someone let him into a line of Toronto traffic, he’d declare of the considerate driver, “He’s got to be from Meaford.”
As infinitely charmed by as poised to poke fun at these small-town relics was Tom’s wife, Susan. Tom adored his Susie, whom he was lucky enough to extract from a youthful engagement when her mother, working at the law office where he was articling, pressed an introduction. Tom praised her every chance he got, raising a glass at all the family functions to choke out heartfelt toasts to the woman who cared for him with every bit the intensity he did her for their 58 years together.
Tom enjoyed a long career as a lawyer and loved sharing stories about his varied cases with friends and family, never failing to linger on the characteristics of his clients and their tales that he found absurd.
Tom’s friends regarded him as a kind of superhero whose superpowers were compassion and wisdom. “There’s God and then there’s your father,” a family acquaintance used to tell his children, Laura and Michael, a fact they tucked into their understanding of the gentle giant who walked them to school and taught them the ropes of being decent, thoughtful humans. Once, he sent his daughter with a quarter to buy a paper from the newspaper box. When she returned with a stack, thrilled to have discovered she could take more than one, he told her to return all but one to the top of the box.
“But then someone else will take them!” she wailed.
Tom let a beat pass before responding. “But it won’t be you.”
Tom imbued all he did with that principled stance, including his turn as president of a community theatre he joined when the family moved to Caledon in the 1980s. He loved his time with the Caledon Townhall Players, and he and Susan were the heart of the club during their tenure, hosting historic cast parties on their sprawling property that included sledding on squares of cardboard and dancing to Bruce Springsteen.
Tom loved to laugh and could find the joke in anything, including himself. He was always spattered with mustard and popcorn bits – remnants of his favourite snacks – and would chuckle along with whoever pointed them out, his belly unsettling the kernels.
An avid reader, Tom was a brilliant practitioner of the English language, endlessly prepared to define words for those who were flummoxed by them. If you disputed his definition, even better. “I have a loonie,” he’d announce, proposing a bet about, say, the definition of “perfidy.” He mostly won, but nobody was fussed when no money changed hands.
He loved dogs. Same thing with grandchildren and his six knew how blessed they were to have such a wise, loving Boppa, ever prepared to offer them sympathetic and sage advice for negotiating a life stage.
Tom got increasingly sentimental in his dotage, and the family would howl at his weepy attempts to get through greeting cards, book inscriptions and his annual reading of The Polar Express to the grandkids without letting his emotions get the best of him.
It was the message about never stopping believing that got him in that story. That was the best thing about Tom – he never did.
Laura Pratt is Thomas Pratt’s daughter.
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