Patricia Ann Tiger (née Moran)
October 25, 1947 to March 18, 2025
Edgewater, Maryland
If you ever needed someone to back you up in a parent-teacher conference, a crisis of confidence at 3 a.m., or to pick you up from a sleepover gone awry, Patricia Tiger was already in the car, engine running, no questions asked.
Pat didn’t come here to play small. She came here to build an empire out of backbone, sarcasm, and a bottomless capacity to show up when it mattered most.
Born in Washington, D.C. on October 25, 1947, Patricia Ann Moran was the first child of James Doyle Moran and Edna “Nikki” Elaine Owen. Her father, a D.C. native, was a WWII Purple Heart veteran and a proud railroad worker known as “Ha-Ha” to his grandkids for the goofy faces he’d pull to make them laugh. Her mother, a proud Navy veteran, raised in the hills of Bristol, Tennessee, had a voice like warm molasses and could sing like an angel. She called herself a hillbilly and gave you the most loving arm squeezes.
Pat came from strong roots. Her paternal grandparents were Michael Aloysius Moran and Catherine J. Doyle. Her maternal grandparents were Nicholas Fain Owen and Gertha Mae Shufflebarger (Granny Snow). Behind them stood a long line of Irish, Appalachian, city smarts and Southern grit, people who knew how to survive, how to laugh, and how to raise fiercely independent women.
Pat was the original oldest child. The blueprint. The boss before job titles. The one who made the rules, kept the peace, and knew which sibling was lying before they even opened their mouth.
She earned a scholarship to Elizabeth Seton High School by memorizing the entire Baltimore Catechism (yes, the whole thing), and somehow still had time to read every book in the library and stage a mini-rebellion against those heinous gym uniforms. Later, she transferred to Northwestern High School to keep an eye on her sister Teresa, where she breezed through senior year like it was a light warm-up for the real game: life.
And oh, did she live it.
She worked full-time, raised four kids, and put herself through college. Twice. Bachelor’s degree. Master’s degree. All while making dinner (debatable), rewriting her kids' school papers, and earning her seat at the executive table in Human Resources, where she didn’t just climb the ladder, she rebuilt it in heels.
Let’s address the cooking real quick. She wasn’t exactly “culinary.” She was... efficient. Her signature dish, affectionately known by her children as “pork chips,” may have doubled as a roofing material. But no one ever left her table feeling unloved.
Because that’s who she was: a woman who fed you with her attention, her ferocious belief in you, and the kind of dry one-liners that stuck in your head for decades (and possibly your therapy sessions... who’s to say).
She raised her four kids, Camille, Sharon, Joanna, and Michael, with a determination that they know their power and strength. When Joanna wanted a mohawk at age nine, Pat’s response was, “Great. You’ll look badass. Let’s go.”
She was that kind of mom. The kind who didn’t flinch, except if she was teaching you how to drive and you hit a parked car. Ask me how I know.
She was the same with her siblings, Teresa, Susan, Jacqueline, and James. She was the rock. The ringleader. The voice of reason. The one who carried the family history, the family stories, and the family calendar in her head at all times.
Her bond with her siblings was sacred. Road trips to Florida as teenagers. Late-night gossip as they shared a single bedroom in their childhood home. Their own little club, complete with inside jokes, Scrabble games, pitchers of margaritas, daiquiris with wooden splinters (ask Teresa), furniture rearranging after those drinks, and an unspoken pact that no matter what happened, they were in it together.
Her storytelling and writing were legendary. Pat wrote her life down not to be dramatic, but to document the facts. She wanted people to know what mattered. The smell of honeysuckle in summer. The joy of being crammed in a Ford Falcon with your siblings and 45 pounds of luggage. The moment she looked through a kaleidoscope as a little girl and realized that “even the smallest shift can make the whole world beautiful.”
She is survived by her children: Camille Marie Thurston (Anthony), Sharon Renee Tiger-Aquilino (Steve), Joanna Michelle Tiger (Xavier Hernandez), and Michael Kenneth Tiger (Erin Price); her grandchildren: Brooke Elaine Thurston, Grace Elizabeth Tiger-Aquilino, and Luke Anthony Thurston; her siblings: Teresa Ponte (Victor), Susan Piper, Jacqueline Maisel (Leonard), and James Moran II (Terri Collins); and about a thousand people who still can’t quite believe how lucky they were to have her in their corner.
She leaves behind a legacy of intellect, irreverence, resilience, and an impressive, lovingly curated collection of stuff. Shelves of delicate demitasse cups. A glimmering spread of depression glass with enough sparkle to make Antiques Roadshow cancel their next stop and come to her house instead. Roosters, ducks, buttons, seashells, and yarn (so much yarn). She crocheted daily and attached her own tags, “Strangled Yarn,” to her creations. There’s also a slightly overwhelming inventory of small kitchen appliances and four full shelves of cookware, which is saying something for a woman who considered boiling water a half marathon.
She once had a massive stash of cake mixes and frosting, an entire cabinet’s worth, which mysteriously vanished sometime in the past few years, a fact that has raised more questions than answers. Yes, she let go of a lot, but as a former antique dealer, her home still has the energy of a very chic vintage shop run by someone with strong opinions about gravy boats and zero intention of ever going minimalist.
May her collections find good homes. And may her children approach the sorting, the remembering, the letting go with half the strength she carried through a lifetime of showing up, no matter what.
A private celebration of her life will be held in Kent Island, Maryland. In lieu of flowers, Pat would want you to fight for democracy, cheer for the Commanders, speak your truth, write your own story, and never let anyone tell you pork chips aren’t a real meal.
And if you ever find a kaleidoscope in a drawer, pick it up. Give it a turn. Remember that one tiny twist can change everything.
She’d like that.
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