Skilled local craftsman Tom McGann passed away on June 6, 2025. He was 67.
It was my pleasure to work with Tom on the construction of Tom and Gretchen Carpenter’s house overlooking Eyak Lake. I was part of the volunteer help.
What a crew; Dick Groff, Bud Moore, Tom Carpenter, and myself.
One craftsman and four nimrods. I’m sure more than once Tom took a deep breath and paused to gather his wits by looking at the placid lake waters.
I remember standing by him on scaffolding nailing cedar siding while we waited for the threesome at the saw below figuring out how to make the correct angles on the end cuts. In typical fashion, he quietly said: “Don’t worry, they’ll figure it out.”
Which they did, at first with considerable banter. After all, they ran a place called Whiskey Ridge Trading Company, which specialized in guns and bikes. But the biggest item on sale down there was BS.
On those first cold clear days I must have dropped my cordless drill dozens of times and Tom never said a word. Finally, I figured out the pouches on my 20-year-old leather carpenter’s belt were not deep enough to securely hold a drill. When I showed up with a much better belt, he also didn’t say a word.
That was Tom McGann. Quiet, patient, mellow, and a nice sense of humor. Never once did I hear him mutter a word of dismay.
He built countless houses in Cordova with the owners pitching in and I can’t imagine the range of skill levels he encountered. I did my apprenticeship building our Pete Dahl duck cabin at age 15 in 1959. The lead carpenter was Smoky Bernard; Harry Curran, Dad, and I were the crew. In five days we had our 16×24 shack framed up and closed in. We used a lot of 16 penny nails and scavenged lumber, which speaks well to the level of skill that was involved.
I loved every minute of it.
There is something magic about building, and the camaraderie that goes with it, especially when the crew clicks, as it did on this project.
Be happy in your work. Indeed. Tom was always that.
One day started out sunny, with a mounting southeast breeze rippling the lake. Anyone who has lived here very long knows what that means.
Tom and I were up on the roof. Sure enough a few rain drops splattered on the plywood. Undeterred, we labored on. Then Tom took his carpenter’s pencil and drew a big circle around where he was standing.
“Back when I was working in California, if one drop hit in that circle we quit because it was raining too hard.”
We worked until the entire circle was wet.
That was Tom McGann. There just weren’t many rain drops in his life.
