Tom Owen retired from the penitentiary in 2002, thanks to an early retirement program offered by a governor who would later end up in one himself. He was 46. He needed something to do.

Twenty-two years later, he's still finding something to do.

Tom graduated from Salem Community High School in 1973. His family had moved here in 1969 after his father retired from the military and relocated to be closer to his parents in Alma — just eight miles down the road. Salem became home. It never stopped being home.

His work life unfolded in chapters. First came Murray Center, where he served as a Mental Health Technician III, running activities and supporting residents. Then came the penitentiary in Centralia — 23 years reading people, watching body language, learning to see what's really going on beneath the surface. After retirement, he was hired by Patoka High School as a paraprofessional, supporting a student who attended special education programming at Salem. When that student graduated and Patoka had no position for him, Salem asked if he'd like to stay. They offered him a study hall or a crisis class.

He chose the study hall. He's been there ever since.

But that's not all he's done. During his years at the penitentiary, Tom coached — boys' basketball, girls' basketball, cross country, and track at Selmaville Grade School. He was the head girls' basketball coach for 13 years. He connected with Janet Holst, the head girls' coach at Salem, and they kept their programs together as feeders. He assisted Coach Kessler with girls' track. I called him a Swiss army knife. Tom just shrugged. "Find something to do," he said.

His family tells the same story. Two of his sons are state troopers. A grandson is a state trooper, too. Three of his daughters are nurses. He and his wife adopted a boy they got at eight months old — now seven, still at home. A week before this interview, Tom became a great-grandfather.

"You've got a legacy of care," I said.

Tom deflected. "We're very fortunate," he said. "It's just kind of how it all worked out."

But nothing about Tom Owen just works out. It's built — deliberately, patiently, one relationship at a time.

In study hall, he sees more students than almost anyone else in the building. Some semesters, when freshmen rotate out of driver's ed classroom work and into behind-the-wheel, his room swells to nearly 100 kids. He meets them all as freshmen. He asks what they're involved in, what they like, and what their plans are. He watches their faces, their posture, their tone. He learned that skill at the penitentiary — reading people was part of the job. Here, he uses it for something simpler: connection.

"All it takes sometimes is just, 'How are you doing? Everything okay?" he says.

He used to be stricter. Assigned seats. Alphabetical order. No exceptions. But experience softened him. He learned that life is complicated, especially for teenagers. He tells the story of a student he once corrected for putting his head down. "I have to close every night," the kid told him. "I get off at two in the morning." The family needed the income. Tom didn't hesitate. "Put your head down," he said. "Get some rest."

Everybody has a story.

His philosophy is prevention over punishment. "It's gotta be proactive instead of reactive," he says. "If you're reactive, something bad's happened. If I can nip that problem in the bud, that helps out a lot."

He encourages students to find their place — sports, band, drama, esports, anything that builds community. He speaks openly about how college isn't the only path. His own grandson transferred to Odin, went through a Kaskaskia College program, and became a plumber. "Probably a lot happier than he'd be sitting in a college classroom," Tom says. "We're not all the same."

He loves seeing former students succeed — whether they're working locally in the oil fields or doing research in Antarctica. The school's Academic Wall reminds him daily that talent grows everywhere, including here.

And woven through it all is Tom's belief that stability matters. Many students come from fractured homes. Salem models something different: administrators who stay, adults who show up, systems built with care. The food pantry, the clothing closet in the basement, the hygiene supplies available quietly and without shame — all of it says the same thing: You matter. We've got you.

Tom sits at what Coach Kessler once called "the king's table" — a desk where misbehaving students used to sit. Now it's where they want to be.

For a man who's spent his life finding something to do, this isn't just a job. It's a calling.