Pat graduated from Northern Colorado Teacher's College in Greeley, Colorado. Upon graduating she taught school and later dedicated herself as a homemaker to her growing family. She also enjoyed reading and sewing in her spare time.
She is preceded in death by her husband, William "Bill" Waltrip on January 4, 2008.
Pat is survived by her son, Mark Waltrip and his wife, Yvonne Waltrip; daughter, Carol Jaquish and her husband, Daniel Jaquish; granddaughters, Kayla Cavazos, Natalie Jaquish, Karen Jaquish, Meredith Jaquish and Erica Daniel; grandson-in-law, Austin Daniel; great granddaughters, Evelyn Daniel and Eliza Daniel; and brother, Donald Burham of Canada.
A beloved wife, devoted mother and loving grandmother, she will be missed by all who knew and
loved her. She is now at peace and at rest with our Heavenly Father.
Visitation will begin at 1:00 pm followed by a Funeral Service at 2:00 pm Thursday, September 20, 2018 at Moore Funeral Home Chapel. Burial will be at Moore Memorial Gardens, 1219 N Davis Dr., Arlington, TX 76012.
Following is the eulogy given September 20th, 2018 at the funeral service:
"Life is a Series of Trade-offs"
--Dan Jaquish
If there’s one thing Pat Waltrip is going to love about heaven it’s that there are no closets. After all, if you can’t take it with you then you can’t lug it down the streets of gold and stash it somewhere out of sight. Incidentally, this is also the thing Carol and I may miss the most.
Pat eschewed clutter. Carol knew from childhood that if she had something precious she’d better hide it deep or while she was at school it would be headed for the nearest Goodwill drop-off when her mom started spring cleaning. Ask Carol about the silk kimono her dad brought home from Korea. I’ve never even seen a photo of it, though Carol attests to its beauty having seen it as a child, but apparently Pat didn’t see any reason to hang onto something that was too nice to wear—especially if it wasn’t beige—so it just quietly disappeared.
I admired Pat for her ability to be ruthless with her discards but when she’d come to visit the ranch and cast her all-seeing eye over my plunder piles of rusting treasures lining the shop walls I’d feel a deep sense of shame, wondering why I hadn’t inherited the clean gene from my Norwegian mother but instead took after Dad whose genetics were mutated by the Great Depression, preventing him from throwing anything away. Still, I covet neatness as any blind person covets sight and I had the greatest respect for Pat’s ability to decide instantly what stayed and what had to go. On the other hand I’m relieved that the ‘decomplicate-your-life’ gene missed Carol too. You should see her basement library. She and uncle B.A have that in common. Pat only went down there once, and it took her a year to recover—well to be truthful . . . she tripped over something on the stairs.
Pat loved me. Told me I was special—on numerous occasions. And the first time I naively believed her. It might have been a Christmas Eve when she sidled over, put her arm around me as we stood admiring the granddaughters playing with their new toys, and she whispered, “You really are my favorite son-in-law,” then, “Of course you’re also my ONLY son-in-law.” I caught the twinkle in her eye then as she smiled. I responded in kind: “Well you’re also my favorite mother-in-law” to which she responded, “I know.” It proved to be a favorite jibe between us over the years, almost as traditional as Christmas.
Being the direct person she was, in the beginning I sometimes would ponder any possible hidden meaning in an oblique comment she made, or wonder whether her silence was meant to communicate something more telling, but as I got to know her I discovered she was one of the most lovingly candid people I’d ever met and I appreciated that quality more as the years went by. Others might not share this opinion, of course: one of the great stories Carol tells is the morning in church when a lady came by Pat’s pew after Sunday school feeling humiliated because the children in her class were making fun of her large, beak-like nose. Pat, wanting to comfort the woman, said, “Yes, children can be brutally honest.” It was sincere, truthful empathy yet the woman turned on her heel and stomped off before Pat could explain herself. I guess some people just want to be comforted by false flattery. Pat wasn’t the go-to person for that. But if you were seeking an honest, sincere opinion, hers could always be trusted.
I loved Pat. I loved her talent for coining words or turning a phrase. It’s a gift she passed on to her kids, and that clever wit lives on in Carol and has delighted our household over the years. I recall Pat and Bill recounting the details of a vacation out west where they had toured an architectural masterpiece of a famous American architect. Pat wasn’t impressed. She noted the ceilings in every room had water stains—something you’d think impossible in Arizona. She dismissively referred to this great architect as “Frank Lloyd Wrong” ---and that’s what Carol and I have called him ever since. His only redeeming quality in Pat’s eyes was that he too didn’t like closets.
Pat had early in her adult life been a school teacher and she taught me to appreciate literature in a new way. She knew some wonderful poems from the past that I had never encountered as an English Major in college. There is a whole series of them that she could recite by heart but this one is my favorite:
Little Willie in the best of sashes,
Fell in the fire and was burned to ashes;
By and by the room grew chilly,
But no one wanted to stir up Willie.
Later I would learn other verses to this famous poem but I’ll always remember it was Pat who introduced me (and our delighted children) to the wider world of literature.
She was also deep; and wise. Wise enough to know when to speak her mind and when to refrain from criticism. Carol and I made a lot more blunders as young parents than we realized at the time. And while Pat and Bill were always there to offer a helping hand, they never came to criticize, interfere, or tell us how naive our approach to life was. After we had Natalie and Karen they did hint once or twice that two children was a nice number. We then had Erica, and they remarked again, “Three children is a nice number” hinting it might be a nice number to stop at, and perhaps thinking forward to how much they’d be spending on Christmases and birthdays and graduations in coming years if we didn’t take the hint. When we turned up for dinner one night to announce we were expecting number four . . . they just a smiled. If only I could’ve been a fly on the wall to hear their conversation after we left that evening . . .
And although I don’t recall them ever saying “Four is a nice number” (fortunately we figured that out ourselves) it was soon obvious that they were going to enjoy Meredith to the fullest extent possible. She was the one who would toddle into Grandpa’s office, get lifted up to use his computer, then sit in his lap for hours playing games while he coached her on the finer points of using a mouse.
But the wisest thing Pat ever said has stuck with me through the thick and thin of life and will be an everlasting comfort. I don’t remember the occasion but she observed aloud one day, “Life is really a series of trade-offs.” And she was right. Everything we want to do in life, everything we reach for, everything we hold in our hands must replace something we have to let go of---because we only have so much energy, devotion, and time to give to life’s pursuits. We pass through this world reaching for everything our eyes see and long for but we eventually learn that we can’t carry it all with us in our quest for contentment; some things have to go. I guess that’s what made Pat the happy master of a clean, uncluttered life: she wasn’t afraid to let go of things. She was wise enough to trade them in for something better—even if it was still just beyond her reach.
In 2008 after Bill died, Pat became increasingly ready to let things go. She moved out of their spacious home to take up residence in a small apartment at a retirement community, gave up driving and sold her car without a murmur, made new friends, busied herself in the life she had adopted, and kept up with her growing family of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren . . . and me; and yet . . . after a while she got tired of the increasing hassles of old age, frustrated with a body that was becoming burdensome. Still, she found ways to cope: when her hearing went she turned from the TV to reading books. When her eyes started to go she went to Large Print editions. She missed Bill and longed to trade up to the life that awaits us beyond this world. She didn’t like living in a body that was crumbling. But she persevered and motivated herself to stay happy regardless.
Then, a bit over a year ago she became aware her memory was slipping –which for any of us would be a terrifying thought--yet she handled it bravely, even joking about it when she would catch herself repeating a question for the second or third time.
She spent last Christmas Eve at our family gathering, grateful to still be part of the traditional festivities. But I could tell she was more detached than in the past, content to watch from a distance as a new generation of toddlers took their place around the tree. All were aware she was struggling with memory issues but we happily answered the same questions she repeated and she listened attentively to our response each time like it was new revelation. The sweet light of her soul seemed to shine more brightly, yet I wondered what and when the next trade-off would be.
By February it was clear she needed more care so we moved her to Bethesda Gardens, the Assisted Living Center where she spent her remaining days. It was a relatively easy adjustment for her because she accepted it as a necessary transaction, expressing repeated gratitude to Yvonne and Carol for working to make it feel like home, and she was delighted with the loving, professional care she received. Pat was happy, we were relieved. It didn’t matter anymore whether she looked out the window and saw Arlington, Texas or Greeley, Colorado—she was content.
Soon after she moved to Bethesda I happened to be in Arlington one day and stopped by to pay her a visit. We sat and talked a while, me asking everything I could think of regarding her childhood because those memories were still vivid in her mind and could keep the conversation going. I wondered idly if she might remind me one more time that I was still her favorite son-in-law. The conversation seemed to be moving in that direction and I could almost anticipate the words forming in her mind, that mischievous smile turning the corners of her mouth slightly. ‘Here it comes,’ I thought. She looked quizzically at me a moment and said, “You look familiar. I bet I’m supposed to know you.” I could see her mind struggling to make the connection so I offered, “Yes, I’m Dan, Carol’s husband.” “Ah”, she said with a twinkle of happy recall--“my favorite son-in-law.” And suddenly there it was, Pat’s unique burst of laughter, and her mind whole again for one precious moment as she reached out to touch my hand. It was just like old times. We smiled knowingly at each other and then the moment passed, she looked out the window and commented on what a warm spring we were having for Colorado.
The conversation had tired her so I hugged her goodbye and went on my way, wondering how many more trades she would experience before the doors of heaven opened for her and she handed off the fading light of earth to reach for a glorious eternal day.
“Yes, Pat, life is a series of trade-offs. And you’ve definitely just made the finest trade of your life. We all wish you the best that heaven has to offer. Don’t be surprised by the lack of closets. You and God (and Frank Lloyd Wrong) got this right. The rest of us will adjust.”
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