The Mayor

In 1976, at age 22 — roughly the same age that you and I were still waking up at noon — Tom Tartt decided to run for a spot on his town, Livingston’s, city council. He won.

In the 47 years since, he won 13 consecutive elections (12 as mayor), drilled wells to bring the town cleaner water, kept a balanced budget while only raising taxes once, and worked in leadership at the University of West Alabama (UWA) for 14 years — all while living in the same house where he grew up. Few people in the state of Alabama have lives as deeply interwoven with their hometowns.

It’s tough to find a definitive list, but there is little doubt that Tom has one of the longest tenures of local elected office in US history.

If you ask his friends, then of course they’ll remember all that. But they’ll also remember the other side of Tom. The guy who, at 21, owned a bar on the town square named “The Study Hall” so that the college parents wouldn’t question the receipts. Or the guy who, in his late 30s, bought a Winnebago with a bunch of buddies, hired a police officer in uniform to drive, and hightailed it with whiskey and a poker deck to every UWA football game across the southeast.

In 2015, despite never smoking, Tom was diagnosed with lung cancer — a type that never goes into remission. So for the last 9 years, Tom underwent “maintenance” chemotherapy, in order to keep his cancer dormant. It worked, mostly.

So it is impossible to fully appreciate Tom’s nearly 50 years of public service without noting this: for close to the final decade, he served his city and state while simultaneously battling cancer.

On February 22 of this year, Tom passed away at 69 years old, still actively the mayor of Livingston. He had never lost an election.

On the day of his funeral, Governor Kay Ivey authorized lowering the American flag to half-staff in honor of Tom, whom she called “a model public servant” and “the very definition of a gentleman”.

The Man

I met Tom a few months before he passed.  When I arrived at his office, he smiled, welcomed me to town, and shook my hand far more firmly than I would have expected from a man a decade deep into a war with cancer.

And he could not have been happier to talk about Livingston. As he walked me through city hall, an historic train depot he saved by converting it into the city offices, he spoke of sports at UWA, the local arts, and the friendliness of the townspeople — he joked, “even the new people are friendly. You know, the ones who have only been here for 30 or 40 years!”

“You ought to bring your family to our Christmas parade,” he told me. “There’ll be food, crafts, games, face painting, a movie—”

He stopped. Then he turned to me, his eyes alight, “…tell me, does your little boy like fire trucks?”

A month later, despite having just met me, Tom saw to it that my family and I rode in the fire truck with Santa through Livingston during the town’s Christmas parade. We waved to people, chased candy, and had the time of our lives. My son was only four, but he will never forget it.

The Legacy

Since Tom’s passing, I have read many tributes to his life. 

A man whose time in office was so extensive that it earned a place in the history books? Yes. A public servant whose reputation was so esteemed that state leaders, from congressmen to the governor, have publicly paid their respects? Also, yes.

I only knew Tom briefly, but given that fire truck ride, I would add this: Tom was a man of such kindness and generosity of spirit that just to meet him was to have your whole family embraced — not just by him, but by his entire town.

Keep up with us on Facebook.
Prefer Instagram? We’re there too.