Maddness, Dreams and Accolades: In Memory of John S. Wright

I’m throwing in the white flag and putting my bikes away for 2016. With a self-diagnosis of seasonal affective disorder (SAD), those last few rides are bittersweet. I’ve felt like a teen without a phone charger watching my battery die. One of my last rides was on the Shady Side Greenway trail through the Ross Park disc golf course. There’s a bench along the pavement south of the Veteran’s Memorial that says “In Memory of John S. Wright.” I usually cruise by my friend’s bench, but on this day shortly after the election, I stopped and thought for a bit.

I met John in the spring of 2000 at Bartz Field. He was a tall train conductor in his 50’s who loved to run. We became part of the “Dog Park Pack” after a dozen or so of us kept showing up at the same time in the evening.  We watched our crazy canines chase. We alerted each other when Mutt-mitts were needed, and as time passed we took snacks and drinks to watch the sunset together while our dogs danced. 

One summer night before the ISU softball field was built, an LDS youth group left some ice blocks on the old sledding hill. John had never heard of ice blocking—getting large blocks of ice and riding them down a grassy hill like a sled—but after I explained it, he beamed and yelled, “let’s go!”

John’s grin is as memorable as his long-legged stride. He beat me to the blocks, so I watched from the base.  He giggled with glee as he bounced down the hill barely keeping his balance. The sun was near setting, so the field was a glowing open space for people and dogs to feel free.  

This is my portrait of John before he had a stroke in 2002. Smiling, strong and free to move. 

After his stroke, John lost a lot of mobility on his left side. He could no longer run or even drive, but he could shuffle-walk with a cane.  His short term memory was compromised along with his “filter;” John’s thoughts flew out of his mouth. John and I had similar political and philosophical views, so I got a kick out of his concise and spontaneous post-stroke musings.

Every time I saw John, he complimented me like we hadn’t met for ages. “Billie, I sure like your hair! My, you have a great athletic build. Have you been working out?”  He had seen me play rugby once and held on to that. Whenever the Dog Park Pack got together for a potluck, birthday or game of Apples to Apples, John’s accolades flew as free as he used to run.

 

The last time I saw John, we went to lunch at Buddy’s. As we started the five-block drive back to his house, he blurted “Billie, do you ever dream that you can still run?”  

I experienced an injury that prevented me from running, and John considered this to be something we had in common. I wove through the college neighborhood to extend our talk, and told him I only day dreamed about it. When we got to his house with his good hand on the door handle, he said wistfully, “Man, I dream about it a lot. And it’s so great because I’ll be running so fast and free and then I wake up and I can’t do any of that.”  

I was speechless. What could I say? I simply said, “Wow. That must be maddening.” 

He chuckled. “That’s exactly the word! Maddening!”  He nodded for a minute taking in the new-to-him expression and smiled. “Guess, I’ll just keep hoping that the madness goes away one day. Thanks for lunch Billie, Let’s do it again.”  

I didn’t get to have another lunch with John, but I took comfort that he didn’t experience that madness much longer—or the madness I’ve felt over the past few months.

As I sat on John’s bench a couple weeks ago, I pulled up his 2009 obituary on my phone to refresh my memory.  John was known for “his sweet and adventurous spirit, his generosity and welcoming nature, and his curiosity about the world around him. John loved to engage people in conversations, sometimes perfect strangers, to learn more about their lives and backgrounds. He also had an unusual degree of tolerance for views other than his own, and went out of his way to listen to and respect others' viewpoints.”

John’s ability or tendency to say exactly what was on his mind wasn’t nearly as remarkable as his mind itself.  His mind held joy, kindness and reverence for mankind—as did his dreams and accolades, even in the midst of his madness. Kind minds lead to kind words. Rational minds lead to rational words. We need more minds like John’s right now.  At least, I do.

John was such a character and a delight.