Most Granby folks today remember Tom Wutka sitting on the porch at Lost Acres Orchard, peeling his apples for the many delectable ways they would be used in the family bakery, including his own specialty, Tom’s Dried Apples. Perhaps, especially if they had children, those same folks would remember him driving the tractor that pulled the wagon filled with sightseers for a trip through the orchard on Open Farm Day. Those memories will have to do, for sadly Tom passed away early in December.
Born in Allentown, Penn., he studied mechanical engineering at Moravian College and Penn State, a natural progression of the carpentry and general tinkering he inherited from his dad. He met his wife Ginny at a summer church camp. They married in 1960 and moved to Enfield as Tom had been hired by Hamilton Standard. In 1970, he designed and built a home on Harvey Drive for his family, which now included four children—Matthew, Susan, Marybeth and Robert. Tom and Ginny fell in love with the 1760 farmhouse up Lost Acres Road a piece and, in 1977, they moved there and began the adventure we now know as Lost Acres Orchard.
While solving engineering problems for Hamilton, Loctite, CIGNA, Comfort Systems and other companies, coaching Little League, and working on town building projects, he added a cider mill and bakery to the orchard. The years went flying by. As noted in his official obituary, his children fondly remember “backyard skating rinks, Excel spreadsheets, homemade pancakes, holiday puzzles, cribbage, corny jokes, all from a patient and gentle father who always took the time to show them how things work.”
Each child wrote down his or her special memories of their dad after his passing. His daughter Susan agreed to let us reprint her tribute here. Hopefully, you will enjoy reading this and seeing how Tom’s life was full of humor and the ability to make others laugh.
Dad asked for nothing and gave everything. Among the many things he gave me, I like to think he also gave me some of his sense of humor. The years were full of silly dad puns that had all of us rolling our eyes and saying, “Oh, Dad!”
If you ever spoke with him for even a few minutes, you know he was all about getting a good giggle. He would often introduce Mom as his “first wife.” When the cabin crew on any flight asked what he would like to drink, his standard answer was “a chocolate malt, please.” If he asked you how you were doing and you answered “good,” he’d follow with, “Does anyone pay you to be good, or are you good for nothing?” He was a quiet man of few words, but most of those few were an attempt to make you smile.
Almost every day for the past 20 years or so, Dad would pop into the bakery in the morning—to check in, grab a coffee, set up his apple peeler or sneak a little treat. He’d ask how we were, possibly ask if we were good for nothing, and when we’d ask him how HE was, the reply was always, “I’m good and a half.” Not just good, but good and a half. We knew things were getting tough when in recent years, he had some simply “good” days, and finally many “I’m tired” days.
Mom said the night before he passed that they had driven down to the live nativity at Salmon Brook Park. On the way home they drove past their first house on Harvey Drive, reminiscing. When they got home, they sat in the car for a long while just talking about life and counting their blessings. His “good and a half” always brought a smile, but now I realize it was his way of counting his blessings, his way of telling us that even though farm life was challenging, even though he might rather be golfing than peeling apples, even though there was always something in need of repair, that life was good and a half, and he was grateful for all of it.