My Dad, Ronald E. Wright: 12 Years Gone

According to Mom, for the first 6 months of my life, Dad was also my mother. Mom nearly died giving birth to me, and it took her a few months to recover. Dad did double-duty. Dad both surprised and honored Mom in my baby blessing by giving me her name. “Helen” wasn’t a name they had ever talked about for me, but Dad said it felt right and made perfect sense to him to bless me with her name. It’s a bigly name to carry.

I can remember riding to bee yards with Dad before I was old enough to go to school. I wasn’t any help to him at that age, so I watched him work the bees and talked to him from the truck. The truck radio was always tuned to country music on whatever AM station came in clear enough wherever we were. To this day, I love the smell of a stinky bee truck, with its odor mixed of wax, honey, burnt burlap, and sweat. Years later, I learned that some of these day-long outings were Dad’s idea, when he could see Mom needed a break— even though it made his work day more difficult.

Dad worked his butt off for us. He was a blend of tenderness, and humor, and ethics, and “gotcha.” He was curious and open. He respected everyone he met, unless they proved themselves a scoundrel. He was our dad, and we belonged to him. He loved us quietly and unequivocally.

But Dad’s deepest soul belonged to Mom. When Mom was in heart surgery, he was visibly scared. We were all in the waiting room, and I remember looking into Dad’s eyes. He was lost. After the surgery had been performed successfully, and Mom had arrived in ICU, Dad teared up at her bedside. When he saw Mom finally open her eyes, all I heard him say over and over was “Sweetheart.”