Mama and Daddy  – Olive Rodema Zachary and J. Boyd Wright met while both were working in a textile mill in the quaint village of Belmont, North Carolina (not to be confused with the quaint town of Belmont near Charlotte). Mama had grown up on a farm near Snow Camp. She lost an older sister and a younger brother to the Spanish flu epidemic that hit hard in 1918, taking almost 14,000 lives in North Carolina. Being the only remaining daughter, she assumed the role of second motherto her three older and three younger brothers that escaped that terrible grippe.

Daddy was born and reared on a farm about fifteen miles away in Liberty. His mother died when he was ten-years-old, leaving five sons and two daughters. Not too long afterwards, his widowed father married a woman who had returned from serving as a missionary in India. They attended Pleasant Union Wesleyan Church, which my grandfather had been instrumental in founding. 

Although both my parents faced many hardships (which, I suppose, was normal for those years) they grew up well and happy and graduated from high school. After meeting and falling in love in Belmont, they eloped on a Sunday night in 1936 when Mama was 22 and Daddy was 25 years old. Moving from their respective boarding houses in Belmont to a cottage in the backyard of my Uncle Joe’s house in what was then the outskirts of Burlington, they began their married life together. In 1937, mother gave birth to a stillborn son, Wilbur Boyd Wright. In December of 1939, their first daughter, Elizabeth, was born. Three years later, Rodema was sent to bless this growing family. Another three years passed before the arrival of Rachel; three more years and another daughter, Anna Boyd, arrived.  Then mother was stricken with appendicitis in her fifth month of her sixth pregnancy. She lost the baby, a boy, and almost lost her life. One of the stories I remember hearing was that the nurse taking care of Mama in the hospital in Greensboro lamented, “How is that man going to take care of four little girls by himself?” But God graciously intervened, and the next year she gave birth to me – the fifth and last daughter of J. Boyd and Olive Wright. 

Since keeping a journal was not in vogue when I was a toddler, I just have to try to recollect, the best I can, my earliest memories of childhood. One that is vivid occurred when I was about five years old. I can still see Daddy running out into the street, bravely holding up his arms to stop traffic…our family had been enjoying our weekly shopping trip to downtown Burlington where we actually did more lookingthan shopping. Sometimes we would admire the latest fashions, then Mama, a talented seamstress, would help us choose fabric to take home where she would recreate the ready-made dresses. Occasionally, she made us all matching outfits but as we grew older, she catered to our individual tastes. I loved anything princess-like.The ensemble I was wearing that day had earned that designation in my five-year-old eyes. Although I am sure it was meant to be a Sunday-go-to-meeting outfit, I imagine I had pleaded for permission to wear it to town. Consisting of a turquoise blue velveteen jumper, matching bolero jacket, ivory satin blouse, and a stylish purse and hat made from the leftover scraps of velveteen, I indeed felt like a princess. Skipping along, holding my head up high, I fell victim of a wintry gust of wind that blew the adored chapeau right off my brown curls. Without hesitation, Daddy ran into the street, rescuing my prized possession from being run over by the procession of fifties sedans cruising Front Street. 

“Oh, Daddy, thank you, thank you!” I exuded to my hero. 

“Now you better hold on to it,” he gently reminded.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Another memory I see clearly in my memories is of our nightly – and I do mean nightly – tradition of gathering in our old farmhouse kitchen to read and pray. Of course, that means listen attentively while Daddy read the Bible and kneeling on the hard linoleum floor where each of us, in turn, said our prayers.  Since I was the youngest, I always went first: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, God bless Mama and Daddy and Elizabeth and Rodema and Rachel and Anna and me and the whole wide world. Amen.  

I’m sure that from time to time I added special requests, especially as I got older, but generally that was my prayer. Each of my sisters would pray, then Mama, and Daddy’s heartfelt petitions would end our evening devotions. He would pray for each of us by name as well as other family members, friends, our church, and our current (and often former) pastors. There were some phrases he prayed every night, that to this day, I can still hear him say: Bless those who preach the gospel both at home and across the sea; be with those nearest eternity; be with those who have lost loved ones; keep us from any harm that may befall us; keep me sweet in my spirit. 

Maybe that was the key to my dad’s quiet and gentle spirit…he prayed every night that God would keep him sweet. God certainly did answer that prayer.  

I wish I could recall more details of my childhood.  Sometimes my mind flashes back to a particular occasion. Old photos have a way of jarring memories. One thing I know for sure – I had a very happy childhood. When I think of some of the simple pleasures we enjoyed, I have to giggle. We lived in a different time, for sure. Life on the farm, though we didn’t have a lot of money, was rich. I loved playing outdoors, helping with the chores (when I was still naive enough to think we were playing), eating from the abundance of Daddy’s labors – corn on the cob, fresh tomatoes, watermelons. At one time Daddy owned over two-hundred acres of land on the road that now bears his name; not bad for a high-school educated man whose only other job was as a knitter in hosiery mills. Of course, Daddy had help. His Father owned the cattle on a thousand hills. Oh, yes, Daddy was definitely a child of God. He loved the Lord with all his heart. He never tired of telling us about an encounter he had with the Lord when he was about seventeen years old.

…to be continued