Arthur Edwin Wheatley

My father, Arthur Edwin Wheatley, age 82, passed away on February 23rd, 2025, in Houston, Texas. He is survived by his wife, Linda Wheatley, his sons, Scott and Ryan Wheatley, and grandsons, Emerson and Eliot Wheatley.

My dad graduated from Davis and Elkins College in West Virginia. Shortly after graduation, he entered the U.S. Airforce in 1963 and served until 1968. Upon discharge as a second Lieutenant, he traveled the world, creating alliances and friendships through his work as a risk manager for the Scovill, Pittston, and Brinks companies.

He was one of the proudest Philadelphia natives I knew, and his dedication to the city showed in his love for all Philadelphia teams, especially the Eagles.

While these facts serve as just that, they don’t fully capture the impact this man had on so many lives. I hope these anecdotes convey his essence, and if you knew him, I hope you can see his smile as you read.

When I conjure up an image of my dad, I see his face, and a half-smirk emerges, usually accompanied by a gleam in his blue eyes. I chased this look. There was an unspoken agreement of safety in it—an invitation to settle in, to relax, to let out the inner child.

I must have been ten or eleven and in the fifth grade when I had become the fastest runner in my class by beating the previous champion. With my newly inflated ego, I challenged my dad to a race on the beach in New Jersey that summer. My dad agreed. Witnesses will confirm that he beat me—but barely. As I begged and pleaded for a rematch, my dad plopped down in his beach chair. From the corner of my eye, I caught that familiar glimmer take over his expression. No matter how much I pleaded, he never raced me again. He knew when to go out on top.

When I was eight or so, my dad would let me sit on the armrest between the driver and passenger seat. There, perched precariously as he navigated the country roads between our home in Bethlehem, Connecticut, and the dump, the soccer fields, or wherever we were headed, he’d slip cassette tapes into the player. The Carpenters, Air Supply, and the one I remember most—a Kenny Rogers Greatest Hits tape. "Ruby" and "Reuben James" filled the car, complemented by my dad’s singing, which was most often out of key. The flicker in his eyes came when "Coward of the County" started.

"He was only ten years old when his daddy died in prison," Rogers sang. My dad, with that familiar sparkle, stopped the tape, launched into a detailed explanation of the song, then started it from the beginning. He’d do this four or five times, asking me questions with love in his eyes—for the moment, for me, and for the song. “Do you know what it means to be yellow?” he’d ask. “What would you have done if you were Tommy?” To this day, this gentle guidance has made me deeply curious about lyrics’ meanings in everything I listen to.

My dad had a mischievous side, a child-like spirit that stayed with him his entire life. He’d hide from my brother and me, tickle us until we almost peed, and when we got older, this playful energy evolved into practical jokes. Naturally, I adopted this same spirit. I think it was always there, but my dad helped me be proud of it, to share it with those we loved the most.

The glow on his face appeared when my brother and I would wait for him to fall asleep at the beach, which was inevitable. We’d strategically place Doritos, pretzels, or whatever snacks we had on the brim of his hat, which he had dipped down over his eyes. He’d abruptly wake, waving his arms frantically at the dive-bombing seagulls. I’d scamper off, giggling. He’d glance over quickly, and if you were paying attention, you’d catch the look that said, “I’ll get you, you little…”

About eight years ago, older, grayer, and still falling asleep on the same beach, my dad passed this magic down. His grandchildren, now the inheritors of his playful spirit, placed an assortment of snacks on his chest and head. This time, after waving off the seagulls, and my boys had scampered away, PopPop grinned in their direction, the shimmer in his eyes as he pulled his cap back down over his face.

Art Wheatley, a friend, colleague, and confidant to so many, taught us all to show up—even in a turbulent world. To be as present as possible for those you love. To understand the importance of one’s word. To love fiercely and fully, with a child-like grin along the way.