“Everything has its season. Everything has its time. Show me a reason and I’ll show you a rhyme.”
For many a season, Pam McArdle, versatile performer that she is, found the reason and rhyme to play countless roles in various venues such as admission, the Upper School principal’s office, the studio theater, Thacher, and, most recently, the costume shop. Pam and I shared a summer up in the dusty southeast corner of Kellner, cleaning— folding yard after yard of wool; playing animal detectives trying to identify bedraggled fur pieces; sorting through a decade’s worth of donations, disorganization, and debris; sweating and cursing and laughing—mostly laughing. On those sweltering August mornings, Pam sang her life. A troubadour with colorful tales, she told of a time before Milton when she was not Pam McArdle but Pamela Brewster, a competitive equestrian; of living on Newbury Street, as one of only a few women among Boston’s “Mad Men” writing advertising copy for a casket company; of the Marimekko bridesmaids’ dresses made by her mother when Pam married her love, Jack; of her boys: Matt and Sam; of family gatherings on Dudley Lane and on the Cape; of dreadful novelty sweaters, hand-knit hats, and high-school home economics projects gone awry; of inconceivable loss and courageous strength.
Pam eludes the spotlight. She does not crave attention. Yet, she is a beacon on her own for students, colleagues, family and friends, radiating kindness, unflappable patience, and acceptance of all that life has in store. Above all else—more than the generations of Grade 6 and Class IV plays, the drama classes, the endless laundry —her warmth, greater than any solo spot on a lonely stage, will be Pam’s enduring legacy.
As the curtain draws to a close on this act, Pam is already looking forward to her next. To further paraphrase lyrics from Pippin: So many seem destined to settle for something small. Not Pammy, she won’t rest until she knows she’s had it all. So don’t ask where she’s going. Just listen when she’s gone. And not so far away you’ll hear her singing and laughing softly, dusk ’til dawn.
Rivers belong where they can ramble. Eagles belong where they can fly. You’ve got to be where your spirit can run free. Go and find your corner of the sky.
–Peter Parisi, Performing Arts Department Chair