Pam Wright Tribute

Whenever someone asks me about my father, I always preface the discussion with, “it’s complicated.” You can imagine the listener as they lean forward, their attention focused, as right away they realize there is a story to tell. And there is. And it’s complicated.  

Most of my memories of my dad are negative ones. Some of it because I was in abject terror of him. Mostly because I never understood him. He seemed emotionless unless he was angry. His dry humor was difficult for me to grasp. He was secretive. Quiet. Absent. Even when he was in the room you could tell his mind was miles away somewhere. Always thinking. Processing. Analyzing. Later in life, I came to realize that part of him was a gift he’d imparted to me and my children. All of us analytical in nature.  

He was an amazing piano player who could play anything by ear. No sheet music needed. One fond memory was the day of my wedding as we waited in the youth chapel until we could walk down the aisle of the sanctuary. While we stood around anxiously, my dad began to play stunningly beautiful music on the piano. As the time to walk over to the sanctuary grew close, as a joke, he began to play a death march – dum, dum, dee, dum, - dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum – making us all laugh away our tension. Then as we stood at the back of the sanctuary with the initial notes of the Bridal Chorus ringing out, he turned to me and whispered, “it’s not too late to change your mind,” making me smile broadly all the way down the aisle.

Other memories include teaching me how to swim at an early age in a pool at the campgrounds we were staying in. Taking us to an occasional Orioles game in Baltimore, to visit our grandparents in Michigan and Ohio, to the Enchanted Forest and Kings Dominion amusement parks. Listening to Unshackled on the radio during the long drives home from church. Riding on the back of his motorcycle. Only one time in my life did my dad personally pick out a birthday present for me and I’ve never forgotten it – a brown leather purse when I twelve.

When I was nineteen, he left and didn’t return until I was nearly fifty. During that span of time there was almost no communication. I grew up. Had a family. Went to college and gained a professional career. Had grandchildren. I lived my life without him. When he came back, he was quieter. More mellow. With many regrets. But still, the dry humor. He’d converted to Catholicism and took pride in the fact that he never missed Sunday mass. Not in the entire time he was gone. I embraced him into my family and strived to forgive the past. Not only because it’s a commandment but because not to forgive harms me more.

He lived with us for three years while the family helped him get back on his feet. A new, independent life. He told me once that he’d desired for years to have a place of his own and never thought it would be possible. Even though it was short-lived, he was able to live his dream before graduating to Heaven. A place where my dad isn’t shackled with regret, with what might have been, with an inability to show emotion or express love. I think of him now walking those streets of gold with his grandparents, parents, his son, great-grandson, and good friends that have all gone on ahead, and, of course, Elohim, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit himself. For my dad, it’s no longer complicated. What could be better?

Pam

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