PETER BADIE: A Reflection by Solvejg Wastvedt

“Mom, I got picked last again.” Darrel dragged his feet up the white porch steps and collapsed, crying, into Melissa’s arms.
“Oh sweetie,” she tried her best to comfort him, “Did I ever tell you what I think of when I get down?”
“No,” he sniffed.
“Well, first of all, how about I tell you your grandpa’s story.”
“His name was Peter Badie. He grew up in New Orleans and loved it all his life. Until he turned 18, he had a quiet life, spending his time with friends and family. Then, on December seventh, everything changed.
As soon as he heard that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor, Peter enlisted right away, wanting to do anything he could to support his country. Through all the hardships of the war, his music always kept him going. Whenever they had time to relax, he would play for the other guys, and the songs would let them forget their troubles for awhile. I remember his stories of one night in particular, when they all stumbled into their rooms after and awful day, trying not to let their eyes rest of the empty beds around them. All of a sudden, Peter knew he had to play. He grabbed his guitar and softy started strumming. At first, no one really felt like singing much, but after awhile, one by one, their voices joined his, carrying their troubles with them for a few minutes. Over the next few years, they all stuck together and made it through, stronger for the experience.
Later, back in New Orleans at his family’s home in the lower ninth ward, Peter struggled with memories of the war. Day and night, images of battlefields, sounds of gunshots, and screams of pain filled his head. To forget, he turned to alcohol and gambling. Whenever the memories became unbearable, he would head into town, where he immersed himself in drinking and squandering his money, trying to forget, if only for a few hours. This went on, night after night, until a friend and long-time betting partner turned his life around. Clyde measured his time in heroine doses, and Peter used to say that after each time he woke up drunk in the street outside the bar, he would think to himself, “Well, at least I haven’t fallen as far as Clyde.” Deep down inside, he knew that what he was doing was wrong, and somehow the thought that Clyde had slipped even more offered strange comfort.
All this changed, though, the day Clyde confronted Peter outside their favorite hangout. As your grandpa tells it, he approached him with a determined expression. “Peter,” he said, “I’m coming clean.”
“Are you crazy,” Peter playfully pushed him towards the bar’s entrance. “You just need to get a few drinks in you, then you’ll be alright.”
“No Peter, I mean it. All of that stuff is behind me now. Like I said, I’m coming clean. Please don’t tempt me.”
Clyde’s last plea really hit home for Peter. Whatever kind of twisted relationship they had between them was dragging them both down, and now he could finally see that. His sin made Clyde’s okay and vice versa. In a way, the blame rested on each of them for the other’s addiction.
“You know, Clyde, you’re right,” Peter said decidedly. “I won’t tempt you. I’m with you.”
Slowly, a huge grin broke out over Clyde’s face, like the sun stepping out from behind clouds. They shook on it right there, amidst the drunken cries leaking out of the building’s windows, and turned their backs on that awful place.
However, even though his heart and mind desperately wanted freedom, the rest of him violently disagreed. Months of sickness and misery followed that hopeful resolution, as he struggled with regression and depression. Only through his newfound faith in Jesus Christ, the church where he had started attending mass, and Clyde’s efforts to keep him accountable did he drive out forever the demons of alcohol and gambling. As he used to tell it, ever since the crisp, fresh day in late October when he became a member of St. Jude’s he never touched a bottle or a deck of cards again.
After Peter’s turnaround, he gave his life over to Christ, attending church at least once a day and inspiring himself with morning and evening devotions. He had finally found the only filler for an empty life, and it set him at peace.
For the next ten months, he lived simply, removing all temptations from his life, one by one. He no longer walked by the bar every morning on his way to work, because he had quit his job. Instead, God dropped him right in the middle of St. Jude’s addiction recovery program, where he bent all of his energy on helping others put down the same evils that had haunted his life for so long. He still saw his old friends occasionally, but only to plead with them to turn their lives around. Clyde, Peter met with every afternoon to talk over their relapse struggles and purge any stray thoughts from each other’s minds. He stayed connected to God, connected to others, and connected to himself.
Then, in August of the next year, the fragile balance of Peter’s life tipped once again. It was going to be a big one, they said. Possibly the biggest New Orleans had ever seen. Although it had yet to be named, the storm loomed outside his horizons, threatening to shatter the peace within. Each day he felt the hurricane’s approach; it hung over his life like a huge, black cloud.
I remember him telling me what ran through his head on one Sunday, when he woke up early to prepare for 10:00 mass. Just as he finished his usual routine of grits and morning prayers, he answered a knock to find his entire family, children and grandchildren, outside his door.
“Come with us, Peter,” we urged him. “Come now, before it’s too late.”
For awhile he joked with us, resisting once again, he said, what the Lord was telling him. Finally, the truth sank in, and he grabbed his Bible, some extra clothes, and his rosary beads, fleeing the only home he had ever known.
We drove through the night, desperately trying to escape the approaching disaster. Early Monday morning we pulled in the driveway of our quiet Jacksonville, Florida home. As we stumbled drowsily up the sidewalk, the sun beamed overhead and the neat white gate hung open, as if expecting our arrival.
As soon as we got settled and turned on the news, a sharp contrast to this peaceful scene appeared. We heard the reporters use words like devastation, causalities, and unexpected, and saw pictures of Peter’s neighborhood, under water. Everyone was insisting that residents couldn’t come back yet, so he anxiously waited in Florida for seven long days. Finally, the next Monday morning, he made the frustratingly slow trip back into the city. Several times, government employees tried to turn him around, but Peter knew he had to see his house again. Peter always told me that when he reached his street, he stood still in shock. Where there had once been the gardens and shade trees he knew so well now only rubble could be seen. He pushed his way through the muddy standing water, pulled a huge branch away from his door, and stepped inside.
From the doorway he could see his study, where colorful posters of musicians and groups he had toured with used to line the walls. Now everything had taken on a drab, grey color, and the pictures lay in soggy messes on the floor, ruined.
Peter obviously couldn’t stay, so he waded the 25 blocks to the Superdome, where he knew he could find shelter. Fortunately, he had brought his guitar when he first left New Orleans, and it comforted him now during the endless hours of waiting. Several other musicians joined him, and they played to raise the hopes of everyone around them.
He stayed in the Superdome for two months, until a worker from Habitat For Humanity informed him that his name had reached the top of their housing list. Peter grabbed the few possessions he still owned, climbed in the worker’s battered van, and they bumped over the buckled and rutted streets toward his new home.
I remember him saying that when they turned the corner and the row of brightly painted houses came in to view, tears ran down his face. After eight horrible weeks, his beautiful New Orleans had started to come back. Hope filled his heart; he fell on his knees in front of the freshly painted white steps, bowed his head, and thanked God.”
Melissa paused, looked over at her son, and saw that her tears were mirrored on his face.
“Peter puts my life in perspective,” she said at last. “Whenever I feel overwhelmed by a misfortune, I try to see the situation through his eyes. Usually I find that my problem would seem so small to him, and I realize that if he could thank God in the face of all that tragedy, then so can I. I love you, Darrel, and I hope your grandfather inspires you, too.”