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    My Teacher, My Bride
    My Teacher, My Bride
    My Teacher, My Bride
    Ebook812 pages11 hours

    My Teacher, My Bride

    By Joseph P. Badame

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    About this ebook

    This is a true story of an endearing, lifelong love affair, born in a most unconventional manner. It is the story of a most remarkable woman. You never heard of her, but maybe you should have. It is the celebration of her remarkable life and spirit and the many trials of her time on earth.

    Rising above a modest background, she became a master teacher of stature, principle, and high morals. She guided all of her students with her extraordinary skills to use their natural talents and abilities to prepare them for adulthood. The students started excelling by wanting to please her, and ended by wanting to please themselves. The love affair begins with a school boy’s infatuation with his extraordinary eighth-grade teacher.

    Whether she was aware of the admiration of her starry-eyed student is not clear, but there was something about him that made her redouble her efforts in his behalf. There clearly developed magnetism between the two. Always the lady, and professional, the teacher developed a true fondness and bond with the student who had an ever-growing crush on her.

    She transformed him from a “C” student to an all “A” student by the time he graduated from her school. After moving to high school, he and his mother were welcomed into the teacher’s large Italian family. The coaching continued. It culminated in Valedictorian status for him at graduation. With time, his infatuation turned to true love, and it became mutual. It was an unorthodox love that might have been misunderstood. It stayed mostly in the shadows for years.

    Seven years later, the student finished graduate school and joined the Peace Corps. The teacher could no longer deny her love, and it exploded into an escape and marriage in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Two years of matrimonial magic in Tunisia ensued. They knew nothing of the hidden peril that lurked in their Eden.

    Immersed in each others love, they returned from paradise to the reality of surprised family and friends, city riots, inflation, and gas shortages.

    Sadly, his beloved wife of only fourteen years developed a series of disfiguring and debilitating brain and spine tumors evidently spawned by a chemical exposure during their service abroad. The tumors forced her to terminate her beloved pursuit of formally teaching children. The next twenty-one years were filled with love, mutual respect, tenderness, and continued preparations.

    When their work was nearly completed, it was abruptly ended by a massive stroke resulting in horrible disabilities, and devastation, but also opportunity. Here was a chance for her worshiping husband to care for her as she had cared for him. She was lucid, intelligent, possessed all her memories, deeply loved him, and never had self-pity or complained. Her thoughtful of others before herself increased her husband’s love and allowed him to complete their work and overcome his deteriorating health, and his debilitating and increasing pessimism and depression.

    After eight years of courage, she died, leaving a legacy of thousands of lives she positively influenced, and the survival preparations for the hundreds she left behind. Ironically, this was a gift that she had gladly prepared and left for them, knowing that she would never benefit from them herself. Eventually, the husband develops a brain tumor from the same chemical exposure, but his grief lessens as he discovers a new and unexpected love.

    While the story is about the unusual lifelong affair of two people in love, it is sprinkled with life observations, advice about the care of each other, the dangers of the health care system, and commentary on the inevitable collapse of western civilization and our nation. But most of all, it is the celebration of the life of a remarkable woman of character and distinction who should inspire and be a role model for all who strive for excellence. It is a story of our times and what he lost and what we all have lost.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJoseph P. Badame
    Release dateOct 9, 2014
    ISBN9781311111302
    My Teacher, My Bride
    Author

    Joseph P. Badame

    Joseph Badame is a retired architect living in New Jersey. He is spending his remaining years working on projects to honor his late wife who was a master teacher. This book is one of his endeavors to pay tribute to her memory.

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      My Teacher, My Bride - Joseph P. Badame

      I Married my Teacher

      An unusual love story about our lives and our times

      Inspired and guided by the spirit of Phyliss C. Badame

      Composed and written by the hand of Joseph P. Badame

      This is a true story of an endearing, lifelong love affair, born in a most unexpected and unconventional manner and place. It is the story of a most remarkable woman. You never heard of her, but maybe you should have. It is not a love story filled only with the happiness of Camelot, but the celebration of her remarkable life and spirit and the many trials of her time on earth.

      Rising above a modest background that we would consider below poverty today, she became a master teacher of stature, principle, and high morals. She guided all of her students with her extraordinary skills to use their natural talents and abilities to prepare them for adulthood. The students started excelling by wanting to please her, and ended by wanting to please themselves. The love affair begins with a school boy’s infatuation with his extraordinary eighth-grade teacher.

      Whether she was aware of the admiration of her starry-eyed student is not clear, but there was something about him that made her redouble her efforts in his behalf. There clearly developed magnetism between the two. Always the lady, and professional, the teacher developed a true fondness and bond with the student who had an ever-growing crush on her.

      She transformed him from a C student to an all A student by the time he graduated from her school. After moving to high school, he and his mother were welcomed into the teacher’s large Italian family. The coaching continued. It culminated in Valedictorian status for him at graduation. With time, his infatuation turned to true love, and it became mutual. It was an unorthodox love that might have been misunderstood. It stayed mostly in the shadows for years.

      Seven years later, the student finished graduate school and joined the Peace Corps. The teacher could no longer deny her love, and it exploded into an escape and marriage in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Two years of matrimonial magic in Tunisia ensued. They knew nothing of the hidden peril that lurked in their Eden.

      Immersed in each others love, they returned from paradise to the reality of surprised family and friends, city riots, inflation, and gas shortages. Dismayed, they decided to prepare for the decaying society to which they returned and which they did not recognize. They were unconventional in their thinking from the beginning. Since no one believed their admonition of the difficult times ahead, they decided they would secretly prepare for them as well. The endeavor took their married lifetime and their resources. It became a concealed life work of love and joy working together toward a common goal of doing for others what they refused do for themselves. This would become a gift prepared and given without the recipient’s knowledge. Scorn, disbelief, ignorance, detachment, indifference, and, in some cases, ridicule by most, over the years, did not deter them.

      Sadly, his beloved wife of only fourteen years developed a series of disfiguring and debilitating brain and spine tumors evidently spawned by a chemical exposure during their service abroad. The tumors forced her to terminate her beloved pursuit of formally teaching children. The next twenty-one years were filled with love, mutual respect, tenderness, and continued preparations.

      When their work was nearly completed, it was abruptly ended by a massive stroke resulting in horrible disabilities, and devastation, but also opportunity. Here was a chance for her worshiping husband to care for her as she had cared for him. She was lucid, intelligent, possessed all her memories, deeply loved him, and never had self-pity or complained. She was always thoughtful of others before herself, and was perpetually optimistic. These qualities increased her husband’s love and allowed him to complete their work and overcome his deteriorating health, and his debilitating and increasing pessimism and depression.

      After eight years of courage, she died, leaving a legacy of thousands of lives she positively influenced, and the survival preparations for the hundreds she left behind. Ironically, this was a gift that she had gladly prepared and left for them, knowing that she would never benefit from them herself. Eventually, the husband develops a brain tumor from the same chemical exposure, but his grief lessens as he discovers a new and unexpected love.

      While the story is about the unusual lifelong affair of two people in love, it is sprinkled with life observations, advice about the care of each other, the dangers of the health care system, and commentary on the inevitable collapse of western civilization and our nation. But most of all, it is the celebration of the life of a remarkable woman of character and distinction who should inspire and be a role model for all who strive for excellence. It is a story of our times and what he lost and what we all have lost.

      I Married my Teacher

      FOREWORD

      Phyliss died almost a year ago. Her loss was agonizing and painful. It continues to be so. It is more heartache than I ever could have imagined it would be. The cemetery is thirty-five minutes away. For three months, I made the fifteen-mile journey to visit her crypt every day. After that, I visited her every Sunday after the early Mass when traffic was light and the cemetery was peaceful and devoid of visitors.

      This weekly visit has continued to be my routine. The loss is still severe, but different. The pain has changed from a sharp intermittent pain to a deeper constant pain and emptiness, a profound emptiness that nothing seems to fill. It is everywhere.

      The numbness has disappeared and grown into a full awareness that she really is gone. This is not a dream. She is not returning, ever. That is a far different and much more permanent desolation from what I felt those first months. Time has not healed at all. The wound has just gotten worse.

      I mentioned my Sunday schedule to one of my dear angels, and she asked why I continued to go to the cemetery. She said, You know, of course, that Phyliss is not there. I have been thinking about what she said for quite a while. I finally had to admit it to myself.

      Phyliss is not there.

      When I visit, I knock on the marble face plate, I guess to let her know I am there. What am I thinking? Is she is going to knock back? Grief, and possibly hope, makes a person do strange things.

      Her living body and her spirit were Phyliss. Certainly her spirit is not there. I pray that it is in heaven. And, her living body is not there either. Only the lifeless remains of her body are left. Eventually they will become just dust, as we all shall.

      There is the beautiful marble slab with her name and date of birth and death to contemplate. But, they are merely objects that designate the contents of the crypt. They are inanimate remembrances that mark a place. They are not comforting remembrances, but distressing images that remind me of the permanence of the reality that she is gone.

      I had to resign myself to the awareness that the place really had nothing to do with Phyliss. It was not a special place of ours that contained fond memories. There was only one memory there of that awful day I said goodbye. That sad memory was hardly a reason to visit the place.

      Even at home, there were only lifeless objects as memories of our lives together. They were mostly my own visual memories, no one else’s. Aside from the improved lives she touched, the only true and complete remembrance of her was in my mind. It is for that reason I have attempted to transfer that record into this book, before the Lord calls me. I believe it now represents the most significant remnant of her life on earth.

      I have attempted to place who she was into this book so she and her life will not be forgotten. It contains the embodiment of her. Her life was a quintessence of love that helped others and can continue to help many more. Please take the time to seriously read it.

      It contains segments that can be somewhat entertaining and some of my own ramblings and rants. But, please try not to read it as just amusement or diversion. Try to read it as an instrument to help improve your life and the lives of those for whom you care. It most certainly will do that if you allow it.

      Will I continue to visit the cemetery? Probably, I will. But, I am not sure why, possibly tradition, sentimentality, or respect. So, I am not asking you to visit her crypt in the cemetery. She is not there and who she was is not there. Besides, it is probably a long trip to visit a piece of marble and an inscription. Do visit her and let her speak to you by reading her book.

      My hope is that some of you, maybe many of you, maybe a great many of you, will be able to find a word, a sentence, a paragraph, or even the entire book to improve your paths through life by observing, contemplating, and emulating her example.

      That is my wish. I know she enriched my life and those around me. I believe her memory can do the same for many others, if they will give her a chance to do so. What a wonderful thought, to be able to teach after she is gone. She would be so pleased.

      BEFORE OUR STORY - MY ONE GRAND REGRET

      These are free words of advice that, one day, you may find to be a priceless gift.

      We only get one chance. I learned too late, but you don’t have to.

      Phyliss and I knew each other for fifty-six wonderful years. We were married for forty-five of those years.

      I think Phyliss, and others who knew us, would agree, I was a very good husband, better than many, maybe, better than most.

      We were each other’s constant companions. We shared every activity. We rejoiced together with each triumph and cried together at every loss. We did everything together with joy, and shared every responsibility.

      From what I have come to understand from my observations over the years, I know it was not a marriage experience for every couple. Every pair seems to have their own ideas about what a marriage is. But, even so, we mutually agreed that our idea of marriage was heaven for us. We were one. We would not have had it any other way.

      We were truly happy and in love, always. I don’t remember a single argument or disagreement of any consequence. I was her priority, and she was mine. We had blinders on. When we were together, which was always, we were the only two in the room.

      She steadfastly cared for me before we married and for our entire married life. As with many of her other students, I owed to her being the person I am today. I steadfastly cared for her for twenty-nine years after her first brain tumor, through her second and third tumors including the eight years of a debilitating stroke. She was my life and I hers.

      For these reasons and others, I felt that if she died before me, I would have no regrets. I did everything a devoted partner should, didn’t I? What could I possibly regret?

      Despite that thinking, when someone you love leaves this earth, you can beat yourself up quite badly, second guessing every word, every action. I have done more than my share of that. Still, I have not learned; I continue to do it now. It hurts, it is destructive, and gets you nowhere but sick and depressed. I am doing my best to stop, but it is difficult when you have been married forever to the perfect woman.

      Fortunately, these things are not true regrets; they are the grief taking charge of my mind. I say to myself, Stop torturing yourself, Joe. I desperately want to convince myself that by saying, You did well, Joe.

      But, even so, with all this lofty cerebral rationalization, there is a regret I cannot seem to shake.

      From the time of the start of Phyliss’ fatal stroke until she went into a coma, was less than two hours. At the end of this short period, I realized that everything that was Phyliss was gone.

      Gone was her love for me, her memories, her wonderfulness, generosity, and passion for life. They all vanished in a few hours. They were gone forever. I had no reason for remaining on this spinning globe of heartache and pain, none. Nothing else was important.

      After the funeral, the terrible realization came to me that now I was the only person left on this earth that truly knew every aspect of her wonderful character and life. When I died, her marvelous story would truly be lost forever. The way I felt, that certainty did not, and still does not, seem that far into the future.

      Others knew her, but none like I. Even though I did not have the talent, that horrible thought and encouragement from a dear friend, provoked me to embark on writing this book. The more I wrote, the more I started to feel comfortable that I could convey her story reasonably coherently. That is all I could expect and all I really wanted to accomplish.

      But as I progressed, there it was. The thought of this awful regret slipped quietly, front and center, into my consciousness and would not leave like an obnoxious relative overstaying his welcome for the holidays.

      I always believed that personal one-on-one, voice communication evoked the strongest of emotions between two people who love each other. This belief was reinforced when Phyliss lost her hearing completely and could no longer hear my voice, only silence.

      It was enormously difficult to be tender with one sentence and one word written responses on a dry-erase board. I was convinced, more than ever, that love could not be effectively exhibited by written communications and other visual manifestations exclusively.

      I thought, Nothing substitutes for the calming effect of your love’s unique voice, the meter, the tone, the variations, vibrations, whispers, the change of volume, emphasis, and punctuation. The banter, cadence, and quickness of exchange could not be equaled. Could I have been wrong all that time? Was there a substitute or adjunct to the human voice to convey deep love?

      As I wrote each page, I thought, That’s not bad, actually, that’s very good I should take this up to Phyliss for her to read these oh, so lovesome thoughts I have about her - thoughts I never really expressed to her verbally as passionately and in such detail as I did with the written word.

      Many were thoughts that I never expressed to her in any way. Why had I not? I was destroyed. She was not there and never would be there to know. All that were left were an empty chair, some photographs, a votive candle, and some artificial flowers.

      She would never read these affectionate words about the adoration I had for her. Sure, I told her I loved her, and showed it, frequently, but it wasn’t like my writings. This was strong, emotional, passionate stuff. People don’t normally talk like that. I did not like that. I still don’t talk like that.

      Reading what I wrote, I, myself, was moved by my love for her, and became emotional many times, and these were my own thoughts! What a healing and, beneficent impact, these words would have had on her loneliness at her most difficult times. They would have been like love letters from a life time ago from her favorite person!

      The more I wrote, the more the regret grew. Oh, she would like this page. She didn’t know what was in my mind when I first kissed her. She didn’t know what I was thinking at the drive-in. (For a moment, I thought maybe it was better she didn’t know.) And, what was she thinking that last day at school when she drove me to her new house or the picnic at her house, or her Daddy’s funeral.

      During all the time I knew her, she never knew any of these lovely thoughts, expressed so tenderly. At the time, I wasn’t even fully aware of my passionate feelings toward her, myself. Not until I wrote them down, did they fully reveal themselves. All these thoughts were never communicated to her. And, now it is too late. Surely, she knows them now, but she needed to know them then, at the height of her despair, before, and especially after her stroke.

      One of Phyliss’ most debilitating disabilities from the stroke was perceived loneliness, even when there was substantial companionship present. These stories would have melted that loneliness like a block of ice in the Tunisian desert. How much better it would have been for her if I had only written this book many years ago. What a lost opportunity it was to lessen her pain. The regret has no relief, no solution, no way out. It has no way to be corrected. I am trapped in my hell for not having done it when she needed it the most.

      The next paragraphs may save you and your loved ones from the pain that haunts me every day.

      What is my message to you lovers? (Those reading who don’t love their spouses close your eyes and go to the next chapter. You do not want to write down your thoughts!)

      Surely, be a good spouse, companion, friend, and partner. Be a great spouse. That’s admirable, but, that’s not nearly enough. You should not stop there. It doesn’t matter if you have writing skills or not. Each of you, take the time to write down your thoughts of admiration.

      Exchange your thoughts through your writings with your partner for life. You will find that your written expression of love will far exceed anything you could say. You don’t have time, you say. Shame on you! Think of the time you wasted many times on trivia and nonsense. I know I did.

      There seems to be something wonderful about being alone with your thoughts of your love and having the time to fully think and compose what it is you are feeling. You write, read, rewrite and reread, until the sentiment is just right and the emotion is perfect.

      And then, it is ready for your spouse’s anxious eyes to read, and reread, and reread once more, especially in times of sadness, absence, or sorrow.

      Remember how you pursued your sweetheart in the dawn of your love - how you could not think of anything or anyone except her. So, now that you have captured her, you are comfortable, you can stop pursuing her?

      Look in the Appendix - Wise Words - number ten - Never forget the happiness and joy of early love. Those are the most wonderful times of your life. By reliving and memorializing them they can stay wonderful, over and over. Don’t fall into the trap of complacency and routine.

      Put away those novels filled with imaginary characters and emotions. This is, and will be forever, your unique composition about the two of you and no one else, unavailable anywhere, at any price. It is about your lives and love for each other.

      Your writing is there today and tomorrow. It is there in those lonely moments when you are apart, or, in my case, when she is gone, forever. It is there when you are gone. It is there for your children to realize how much you loved each other and how it manifested itself into their creation and rearing. It is there as a model for them and others to follow.

      In this time of almost infinite and inexpensive electronic storage media, it will echo into the ages. It will never be lost. The story of your love will outlive you, your children, and your grandchildren. It might even outlive civilization.

      A major preoccupation of man over the eons has been to become immortal. This is your chance for your love to become immortal. This is your chance to have your love live always, long after you are both gone.

      You don’t think the story of your love is worth immortality? Someone will, I assure you. Someone will.

      Millions of people spend a fortune every year belonging to history sites to discover their ancestry. Why force them to search. Leave your descendants a detailed and accurate record of who you and your wife are and what their history and origins were. They certainly will thank you.

      As desperately as I wish Phyliss were here to read my adoring thoughts of her, I wish even more that I had her tender thoughts of me to pull me through my grief of her loss. How healing that would be.

      Think about a purchased greeting card, you receive signed by the sender. Now think of a personally, hand-drawn greeting card with paragraphs of personal, self-written thoughts. There is no comparison.

      Now, expand that to several pages each month for the duration of your lives together, bound into an electronic notebook to reminisce years after the events are long forgotten or your loved one is gone. It will be truly priceless!

      Now, imagine it stored in repositories all over the world. Your love will never die.

      So, my friends get out your pen and paper, your word processor, or whatever humankind uses to record our thoughts in the future.

      Start composing, and have not a single regret tomorrow.

      YOU CAN NEVER HAVE TOO MANY HUGS AND KISSES, MY DEAR!

      (A bittersweet vignette of love and lost opportunity - a monumental life lesson)

      After Phyliss died, my mind wandered in and out of memories, some good, and some not so good. One of the bittersweet memories has to do with Phyliss’ preoccupation with hugs and kisses. This was a preoccupation which seemed cute and endearing at the time, but now overwhelmingly poignant, sad, and joyful all at the same time.

      After we moved into our new home, being an architect and a handyman, I had an abundance of projects that needed to be executed. Some projects took a few hours, some a few months, but many took a long weekend to complete.

      The long weekend projects were usually organized to be completed during two eighteen-hour days on Saturday and Sunday, so I could accomplish almost a week’s work in only two days. Very efficient, I was. In order to do this, I needed to shop late Friday night after dinner to insure that I had all the materials and tools I needed, reserving all the precious time Saturday and Sunday for uninterrupted important work.

      One Friday, after dinner, was one of those weekends when I packed up and headed for the garage to go to the home supply to get the materials for the current endeavor. When I got to the door, Phyliss was standing there in advance of my arrival, arms folded, tapping her toe, eyebrow raised, saying not so fast Bucko, haven’t you forgotten something. I quickly knew my transgression, and promptly succumbed to an extraordinarily large hug, kiss, and smile. And then she responded as always, You can never have too many hugs and kisses, my dear!

      I smiled and hastily pursued my mission with military dispatch.

      A number of times, in my haste, I would leave without my wallet. I quickly discovered this as I left the driveway and returned through the front door. I promptly retrieved my wallet and went to exit the door I had left open.

      Waiting patiently of course, was Phyliss, arms folded, tapping her toe, eyebrow raised, saying not so fast Bucko, haven’t you forgotten something. I uttered with some impatience, I just gave you a hug and kiss. And, naturally, you guessed it, ignoring my impatience; she said so sweetly, You can never have too many hugs and kisses, my dear! The second hug and kiss quickly ensued as tenderly as the first, and off I went.

      I returned home late. It was a dark and cold night. We have a sensor in the driveway that sounds inside the house when a car enters the driveway. Phyliss was upstairs, as she was customarily, reading in bed, when she heard the buzzer sound. (Oh, the sad memory, she could hear then)

      Phyliss immediately abandoned her book and her warm and comfortable surroundings, and ran down the stairs (Oh, another sad memory, she could walk then) in her bare feet and pajamas. (Sometimes without her pajamas)

      By the time I arrived in the garage, she was standing in the doorway, hopping from foot to foot, because of the cold concrete floor, with the anticipation of a teenage girl waiting for her boyfriend. Although extremely pleased with the view, I exclaimed, What are you doing? You are going to freeze to death!

      She ignored my admonishment, and promptly gave me the biggest hug, kiss, and smile. And then responded, You can never have too many hugs and kisses, my dear! with the same enthusiasm as the ones I got when I left. I smiled approvingly and proceeded to unload my purchases and climbed the stairs to join, my dear.

      This happened many times with regularity without any diminution of enthusiasm, love and affection from Phyliss from one project to the next for as long as she was able to walk.

      While I always tenderly return the hugs, kisses, and love with other acts of kindness and love over the years, she was always the enthusiastic initiator and grantor of these special gifts.

      I am saddened to say, after all these years, I cannot remember the object of even one of those important projects clearly. I only remember the hugs, the kisses, and the smiles and the haunting echo of her tender voice. You can never have too many hugs and kisses, my dear! For you see, now she is no longer there to hear the buzzer, run down the stairs, and shower me with love.

      Oh, my God, what I would not do now for just one of those hugs and kisses, or just one of those precious hours of my companionship of which I regrettably deprived her.

      For those you love, don’t ever take for granted the gift that is lying next to you in bed every night.

      Reach out and love her . . . it will be too late when she slips from your grasp.

      Never forget. Everything else is of no importance whatsoever.

      The Epilog to hugs and kisses:

      I wrote this short tale of hugs and kisses as one of the first tales of our story. It seemed enjoyable. I smiled when I wrote it because it was so touching and captured the wonderful nature of Phyliss and her lifelong love for me.

      It was a side of Phyliss that she revealed only to me. How blessed I was. But when I finished the story, I realized that I had written the end of the story, not the beginning. As I wrote the last few sentences, I started to realize how sad it was. Yet, it did not impact me fully how sad until several days later.

      I had just gotten back from a walk around our property of three and ½ acres. Ahead was our house, a large house mostly built by Phyliss and me. I could not stop crying. Why was I crying? I looked at what was a great achievement for me over the decades - always with Phyliss’ unconditional, love, help, and support. How many times Phyliss and visitors marveled at the result of which I was so proud.

      I would rush to Phyliss at the end of each work day, proudly showing her what I had done. She never once failed to present me with words of encouragement, expressions of wonder, and, most of all, with declarations of love.

      This expression of love for me was her essence.

      But, as I took the walk, and remembered every detail of the struggle to accomplish it all, I could only say to myself, So what, Joe. The enormity of the last three sentences of . . . hugs and kisses . . . destroyed me. I felt like I wasted a lifetime. Who cares, now that she is gone, not even I.

      Learn this lesson well. I did not. No matter what your passion is or becomes in this life - a house, a room, a spotless car, a truck, a boat, a job, an education, a game, a game room, a new kitchen, a title, an estate, a pyramid, an accumulation of power, wealth, or stature, or even the world, eventually no one will care, not even you will care once your love is gone. You will be standing there all alone with your precious accomplishment.

      Rather, learn from Phyliss’ life. Her legacy is not a monument or an object. It is the model of how she lived her life and the hundreds, maybe thousands, of minds she molded by lesson, and especially, by example and role-model, into wonderful, responsible adults - to become parents of the thousands of equally wonderful offspring whom they produced. Unlike the accomplishments I described, her accomplishments will last into future generations. My vision of accomplishments will crumble into dust.

      How did her most beloved student miss this lesson when hundreds did not? It appears I may have become her only failure. It makes me so sad, and now it is too late to change it.

      Forgive me, my darling, Phyliss; it appears that this all A" student may have gotten a failing grade in the most important subject of all: the priorities of life.

      WHO REALLY WROTE THIS BOOK, JOE?

      What does, Inspired and guided by the spirit of Phyliss C. Badame, mean?

      When I first embarked on this work, I, Joseph Badame, thought, I was the person writing this book. I really believed that. It seemed reasonable, since I was the one sitting in front of the computer screen entering the words into the word processor. Each time I wrote, I looked around and no one else was in the room.

      I didn’t have a ghost writer. I didn’t plagiarize the story or the content. It was all coming from my brain onto the keyboard. No one dictated the story to me. I did not get my ideas from anyone else.

      I regret that I have never read a complete fictional novel before, and I never read a nonfiction novel or text book either, except to extract information for a test or a project I was working on. Once I got the information I needed, I stopped reading. I guess it was my engineering-oriented mind that said to me, Why read a book that is fantasy or a factual book beyond obtaining the information that you needed. There is too much else that has to be done.

      I know it is quite a limited outlook on the purpose of reading.

      Maybe I convinced you to stop reading. I hope not - not too smart, Joe. Please do keep reading.

      I am positive that I was not influenced by other stories or authors’ styles. I am neither a writer nor author. Except for my graduate thesis, and my high school graduation speech, the most complex writing I have done is composing business letters. Unfortunately, you will, soon enough, find my lack of literary prowess woefully apparent as your reading progresses, if you can get that far.

      Whether this work is considered good, bad, or mediocre is not significant. What is relevant is that I am convinced that the writing is beyond my capabilities. It is a more accomplished work than my talents would warrant.

      So, the logical question arises, How did it get written?

      I have not been a believer in the supernatural nor communicating with those who have passed. After Phyliss died, I wished I could believe in this type of communication. I would not like anything more than to communicate with her. But a series of chance events happened about halfway though the book that may have caused me to reconsider my thinking and help me understand, How did it get written?

      The first chance event happened about six months after Phyliss died. I found myself in the hospital needing a gall bladder operation. My emergency exam room was the exact same room Phyliss was in before she died. My spirits were very low to say the least. I was deep in thought about my pain and possible demise.

      The next day, from my room in the hospital, I was taken down to the operating room and was readied for the anesthesia, when I was told my blood was too thin for the operation and it would have to be rescheduled for the next day. Back I went to my room upstairs. I had prepared myself so well, mentally, but I found myself back to where I started hours before.

      It was that second chance event that placed me back in my room moments before the nursing supervisor entered the room to check on things. I had not seen her before, and it appeared she had selected this room at random. She was not making rounds to all the rooms. It was the third chance event in twenty-four hours.

      She had a comforting aura about her. I felt an immediate trusting chemistry, so much so, that within fifteen minutes I recounted my life story to her. And, of course, my life story is Phyliss’ life story. She was a great listener. I especially told her of our love, the book, and how befuddled I was that I was able to progress as far as I had without any apparent skill in the vocation of writing a book.

      Upon hearing my bewilderment, she gave a knowing look. She then volunteered two very personal stories of significant events in her life that she felt could help me understand how I could write the book. It was now my turn to be a great listener.

      I believe the two stories she told me, changed my mind about the continuing influences our dear loved ones have on us after they pass away.

      I was touched that she recounted her personal stories to me, something she apparently had not done but for a few others. I repeat those stories here with the hopes that they might help others understand that we may not be as alone as we think after our loved ones leave us.

      Her first story started when she was nine-years-old. She lived with her mother and sister. Her grandmother and grandfather lived at the shore. The grandfather was feeble, and had many, long-term health issues of considerable gravity and financial consequence.

      She went to bed as usual one night, but was awakened from a deep sleep in the early morning by her grandmother opening the door and entering the room. She came over and gently sat on the bed. Even thought she was still sleepy, the granddaughter was fully awake.

      This was not a dream. Her grandmother asked her to listen carefully, since what she was going to tell her was very crucial. She wanted her to do something very important for her and her grandfather.

      Grandma asked her to go to her shore house with her mother and have her remove a wall panel behind her bed. The grandmother told her she loved her, gave her a kiss, and left the room. She thought the early morning visit and request were unusual, but she went back to sleep.

      Later that morning, she told her mother of grandma’s visit and what she asked her to do. Mother listened intently to the story, but dismissed the tale of the visit as a little girl’s unusual dream or overactive imagination. While she discounted the dream, she had some concern, since her mother was harboring something terrible that her daughter did not know. They dressed and she took her to the shore house where she would relate the distressing news to her daughter that she was keeping to herself.

      They entered the shore house. It seemed unusually quiet, somber, and empty. The grandfather was there, but the grandmother was not. Following the grandmother’s request from the dream, they entered the bedroom. They found the panel behind the bed and removed it.

      Inside the wall was one hundred thousand dollars.

      The mother then told her daughter the sad news she had been withholding from her. Her grandmother had died during the night, inexplicably . . . before her early morning visit to her bedroom. Grandma had died, appeared to her dear granddaughter, and entrusted her with the information that would insure her dear husband would receive the proper care he needed.

      A number of years later, the little girl married and had three children. I will call her Angel. As the result of serious health issues, the marriage sadly ended in a divorce. She became determined to concentrate her energies on her children and not pursue a new romance.

      Her sister had other intentions for her. Let’s call her sister, Cupid. Cupid assumed the role of matchmaker and enrolled Angel in a dating-encounter web site without her knowledge. She posed as her sister in her romantic pursuits, but used photographs of Angel in her communications with potential suitors. Cupid found, who she believed, was a perfect match for her sister and devised a scheme for them to meet.

      Angel and Cupid ate lunch at a favorite restaurant often. Cupid arranged for Angel to wear her pink, leather jacket. They finished lunch, and Cupid got up to leave and informed Angel that she wanted her to stay to meet a mystery person in ten minutes. This seemed very strange.

      Dating-site guy, let’s call him Tom, entered the restaurant and located the pink leather jacket Angel was wearing. He came over to her table and introduced himself. Angel did not tell me what she was thinking of her sister’s mischief.

      Her first reaction was neutral. But, when he sat down at the table, she felt warmth come over her that she could not explain, especially considering the cool initial response to him. Something about him was curiously attracting. As they talked, there was not a particular rapport; in fact they seemed to have diametrically opposed views.

      Considering their views, a future meeting was not assured, but she did accept his invitation to his house to meet his two children.

      The night before the visit, Angel had another apparition much like that of her grandmother when she was a child. This time, a strange woman came into her bedroom and sat on her bed and told her she would marry Tom. This was quite an assertion, since she had just met him once for a very short time.

      The next day, during their visit at Tom’s house, the children got along well. While there, Angel noticed a photograph on the wall going up the stairs of a lovely woman. The woman in the photograph was the same woman in the apparition she had from the night before. It was Tom’s deceased wife. Within six months, the assertion from the apparition came true. Angel and Tom became the happily married couple of five lovely children.

      After Tom’s first wife died, her cherished cross with great sentimental value which she always wore strangely disappeared. Several thorough searches of the house could not locate the cross and there was no hope that it would ever be found. It seemed to be gone forever.

      One morning, after Angel and Tom married, the cross appeared as mysteriously as it had disappeared. There was no explanation for its sudden reappearance. It was found, neatly placed, on Angel’s night table next to the bed. It was a mystery how it appeared, but it would seem it was a gift to Angel for making her husband and children a happy new home.

      Before the nursing supervisor (Angel) left my room, she asked me to talk to Phyliss and she was certain that she would communicate with me or show me some sign of recognition. Her stories were quite touching, but I was skeptical about being able to contact Phyliss.

      I slept well that night, despite my pending operation. I woke up about 3:00 a.m. It was a rare time of silence in the hospital room which was normally as calm as feeding time at the zoo. I remembered Angel’s suggestion to talk to Phyliss. I thought, Why not, I really had nothing to lose. Besides, what if she were right, how wonderful would that would be. It wasn’t.

      I talked, and Phyliss may have listened and heard, but as far as I could tell, she did not answer me - at least not that morning nor in the way I expected. But, then, Phyliss always did the unexpected.

      After my operation the next day, I, predictably, was very uncomfortable. But, being captive in bed, did give me a great deal of time to think. It was more time than I had to think since Phyliss’ death. It gave me time to ponder the question, with which I started, who really wrote this book, Joe? I further rethought the stories told to me by Angel, and reconsidered my attempt to communicate with Phyliss.

      When I wrote my business letters, it was a process of writing, rewriting, reorganizing, rethinking, and many times, starting over. The end result was always a fine letter, but what a tortuous process it was of organizing thoughts and putting them on paper properly and concisely.

      Now, I wake each morning and cannot wait to sit at the computer and write and write. I resent any interruption that takes me away from that task. I never have writers block. I rarely need to reconfigure chapters or paragraphs. I get thoughts during the night and day, record them. Later, I sit down and the words just pour out of my mind.

      I sit in front of the computer screen for hours, days, and months. It is not a computer screen. It is a magic window, a portal which allows me to observe our life together passing by and unfolding in front of me. The incorporation of the photographs and the captions just intensifies the story. It is wonderful. But, it doesn’t seem possible, it doesn’t seem natural, and I know it is not I doing it. I know my abilities. I am not capable of this on my own.

      After much thought, my conclusion is Phyliss did not communicate with me that night in the hospital because she had already communicated with me shortly after her death and continues to guide me in the writing of this book.

      Phyliss was a master English teacher and literary scholar. She taught me everything I know about English grammar and spelling and always proofread and guided my letter writing while she was alive. Why would she not do so for the most demanding writing task of my life?

      This was a simple and logical answer to my question and therefore the origin of the subtitle, Inspired and guided by the spirit of Phyliss C. Badame. All I have been doing is the mechanics of composing and transcribing the story. The spirit, and the inspiration, is all living within me placed there by Phyliss and left behind by her when she departed – one final gift to her guy.

      It appears that Phyliss, through a series of seemingly chance happenings, sent dear Angel into my room that day to help me solve my dilemma of Who really wrote this book, Joe? Now I know. Now we all know.

      I pray she will continue to send others to communicate with me until we can communicate with each other directly once again, however God may make that happen.

      PHYLISS’ BEGINNING

      A baby girl was born at home at 306 Pine Street, Camden, New Jersey on August 28, 1927 to Rose Crudo and Dominick Crudo, immigrants from Italy. They named her Phyllis Marie Crudo. Phyllis was one of the most common names of the era, but the doctor was a poor speller, and wrote her name on the birth certificate as Phyliss instead of Phyllis. This produced the unusual spelling of her name. It wasn’t long before all around her realized that her name was not her most unusual trait.

      Phyliss was the last of ten children who were born and survived to Rose and Dominick. (Rose had a miscarriage, a second baby died shortly after birth from complications, and Marion died when she was nineteen from a burst appendix.) Phyliss and her sister Marion were sixteen months apart. They were inseparable.

      Phyliss was unique in the household from the very beginning. After Mrs. Crudo had eight children, she was cautioned not to give birth again by the doctor. She had three more.

      Despite the ten previous births, this delivery was different. The delivery was so difficult, that both mother and daughter almost died. The event so traumatized the aging veteran Italian doctor that he vowed never to deliver another child. So Phyliss was her mother’s last and the doctor’s last. I thank God every day that they both made it.

      Phyliss’ family story was typical of most immigrants from Italy and other western European countries. Father and mother came by boat with several children who had been born in Italy. Mr. Crudo quickly secured a large house (I have no idea how) to accommodate his anticipated large family yet to come. Not too long after, they moved to a larger house, nearby.

      The second house belonged to a former ship captain. Camden and Philadelphia were both major ports at that time. The house was opulent even by today’s standards, but very affordable in a transitional neighborhood in an industrial eastern city. While Camden was still a viable and healthy city, there were already signs of decline.

      The house was right next to an abandon awning factory that was converted later to a Catholic Church with a great deal of help from Phyliss. It was actually two houses. It was huge. One part was for the ship captain’s family, and the other part was for the servants and housekeepers. Each part had its own staircase and the house was equipped with a ship’s intercom system to communicate between the two parts.

      Every finish in the house was fine oak including all the doors, windows and wainscots. There were plenty of trim and window panes to keep the tiny fingers of the children cleaning and constantly busy and out of trouble. There was no such thing as trouble from the children in the Crudo household - at least not more than once. One brother was an exception to this rule and was frequently caught in some kind of mischief.

      Mrs. Crudo stayed home to care for the children while bearing more offspring. Father sought employment in a trade he brought from his home land. In this case, Phyliss’ father was a cabinetmaker, and a fine one at that. If you have a vintage piece of furniture from The Radio Corporation of America in Camden, Mr. Crudo may have had his skilled hands on it at some time.

      As with most large families, discipline was essential. The large house population could only function if each member, not only took care of him or herself at a very early age, but then quickly assumed the adult tasks of the household.

      These tasks especially included the care of younger children and babies as mom and dad continued their relentless pursuit to populate the house. The most recent and last member of that pursuit, of course, was Phyliss. In addition to the family children, there were nieces, nephews, neighbors, and priests everywhere.

      Traveling though our lives in today’s modern society, it is hard to imagine how different life was only a little over a generation ago. Today, if one wants to communicate with another, they instantly do so with their smart phone, worldwide, wirelessly.

      If someone wanted to communicate with Phyliss, they either walked to her house and talked to her, or called the grocery store nearby and her brother who worked there would run to tell her she had a call. Her brother would then dutifully inform Mrs. Crudo of the call, the caller and possibly the content of the call. It was sort of a precursor to the National Security Agency today. Mrs. Crudo was truly a pioneer and a trail-blazer.

      Few other things illustrate the differences of life in that era more vividly than the occasions of a birth or death in the household. Phyliss and her siblings were all born at home as part of routine family functions. There were no ambulances to rush the mother to the hospital. All household activity continued almost uninterrupted as the births took place.

      Phyliss’ grandmother lived with them for a number of years before her death. She became gravely ill and was treated and died at home. Notification of the passing was by word-of-mouth, since essentially everyone to be notified, lived within walking distance. Of course there was no phone in the home and no phones in the homes of those to be notified.

      As with the births, and health care, almost everything was done in the home. The funeral director was notified by the people of the closely-knit community. He came to the house, gave his condolences and embalmed the body in the living room and prepared it for the viewing. The smell of embalming fluid permeated the house.

      The viewing, usually the next day, took place in the same living room. Family members, neighbors, and friends paid their respects as they filed into the house bearing homemade food offerings and flowers. It was a combination somber and festive event. There were lots of tears and lots of laughter, if you can imagine that. The proportion of tears and laughter usually varied based on the status of the deceased in the community and the timeliness of the death. The death of Phyliss’ nineteen-year-old sister weighed heavily on the community, the household and her most beloved and constant companion and friend, Phyliss.

      Later, that evening, the undertaker removed the casket bearing the body in preparation for the Mass and burial the next day. The last goodbye’s and departure from the home was a time for only tears.

      Phyliss spent her early, formative years immersed in this environment observing and developing her priorities in life. She wasted no time becoming an unwanted guest and protector, following her older sisters on dates and excursions.

      One day, Phyliss’ sister was in the drug store. (Sometimes combined with a soda fountain; it was a social gathering place for youth of that day) She was socializing with a prospective suitor, who did not meet Phyliss’ standards for her sister. Phyliss discovered them, and casually approached the two and reminded her sister that she needed to buy sanitary napkins. I understand, that day, I came very close to not having a wife to marry. The prospective suitor never came back.

      My dear future wife and unwanted guest freely gave her evaluation and opinion of the potential suitors’ worthiness or worthlessness. I understand that the evaluations and opinions were not exactly welcomed, but usually quite accurate.

      Phyliss was a leader and an independent thinker from the very beginning. She seemed out of place among her siblings, quickly assuming the role of the moral conscience and compass that guided the large family. Soon, older siblings sought her wise counsel. This was a pattern that continued throughout her adulthood.

      It appeared that she honed her already copious social and human skills by example and reverse example. Again, this was a rather unique and unusual way of developing her character and standards.

      Phyliss would observe people and behaviors around her and conclude that their actions and the way they conducted their lives were flawed and counterproductive and to be avoided, or worthwhile and to be adopted and emulated.

      Every time she witnessed an act of kindness, mercy, or responsibility an entry was made into her mental notebook of how she should fashion her life. Each time a behavior of contempt, unkindness, or questionable moral value or dishonesty was observed, she entered it into the notebook of unacceptable behavior. The entries were voluminous and covered the full range of human behavior. Nothing went unnoticed.

      These entries were not just made to establish the nature of her own life, but also as a reference with which to evaluate the worthiness and suitability of friends, acquaintances, and others she dealt with throughout her life. The entries were never wrong, unfair, or misguided and remained steadfast for life. It was as if she had bought a finely tuned Rolls Royce Silver Cloud and relied on its service for the rest of her life.

      I have not been able to identify a person(s) or events(s) prior to attendance at Rutgers that influenced or developed her singular ability to formulate such an impressive moral compass to guide her through her difficult life.

      It could have only been God-given. It does not seem that her development of her compass of right and wrong was the only trait that was God-given.

      Phyliss’ also seemed to be endowed by God with a fire of inner faith that was unshakable. This inner faith never showed itself or surfaced directly. There was never any preaching. There were never any readings or quotations from the bible.

      Yet, it was apparent that her every action, her every word was guided by the teachings of Jesus. Where and when she learned these teachings, is a mystery to me. I never saw her actively pray outside of church or saying grace at each meal.

      Her entire education was in public schools. I am not even sure CCD classes for the public school students existed in those days or if she attended if they did have them.

      I never saw her read the Bible until she had her stroke at age seventy-eight. Even then, she appeared to read the Bible to derive strength, not to learn. Why would she need to learn something that was a part of her being already?

      She would never miss mass on Sunday, and often attended daily Mass even if it meant rolling up her pajama legs and sporting a long winter coat and racing to the church next door not to miss receiving the Holy Sacrament.

      One Sunday a pajama leg fell down below her coat, and saintly Father Longo deftly and kindly brought it to her attention with a simple eye movement. Wearing pajamas under her coat to Mass was probably the greatest transgression of her young life.

      Her actions and her demeanor could not be questioned because they were always the embodiment of Christ’s teachings to the letter. She went to confession regularly, then and in her later life, even after her stroke. I have no idea what she could have possibly had to confess.

      The Irish novelist and poet, C.S. Lewis said, Integrity is doing the right thing, even when no one is watching.

      Oh, my, does that ever describe Phyliss, perfectly.

      Somehow she knew who Jesus was and what He required of her. She followed His direction and example without question. Her faith in Jesus and the Blessed Mother was steadfast and unwavering in every aspect of her life. I never witnessed even the slightest deviation from this path in all the years I was privileged to know her.

      THE CHILDREN’S RESPONSIBILITIES GROW, THE POLITICS OF FAMILY

      As the children each grew older, their household responsibilities grew as well. The cost to manage a substantially larger household also grew. While most went to school, all

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