The Healing Journey

September 1, 2024

The following is excerpted from a column about the late Norman DeTullio by Joe Pisani.

Many years ago, when I was a teenager and life seemed so much simpler, I put pen to paper and wrote my first column because I thought I had something to say.

The truth is I had nothing of value to say, but I said it anyway, inspired in large part by a man named Norman DeTullio, who had faith in me at a lonely time in my life.

During his first year teaching at St. Joseph Boys High School in Trumbull, he was the faculty adviser for the newly formed and short-lived “Cadet Courier.”

My first column, for reasons I can’t entirely recall, criticized the senior girls. (No wonder I couldn’t get dates.) The column, which ran without a byline, provoked a monumental outcry. The nuns, the seniors and the administration of the separate girls high school wanted to know who the author was, but despite the intense pressure, Norman refused to give me up to the inquisition and wouldn’t reveal my identity.

I’ve been thinking back on those years a lot lately, ever since my lifelong friend passed away on July 26 at 82 after a heartrending struggle with Alzheimer’s.

All of us are blessed to have certain people enter our lives and influence us in such a profound way that it changes us forever. Norman was at the top of my list.

Over the years, he had many responsibilities at St. Joseph’s. He ran the driver’s education program, he was in charge of the Alumni Council and moderator of the yearbook and literary journal. He taught literature and creative writing for 32 years and was chairman of the English Department for ten.

Some years later, I saw him on the boardwalk at West Haven Beach, walking hand in hand with his beautiful wife Barbara, which tells you all you need to know about their relationship, a relationship that was blessed with five children and 11 grandchildren.

He once said, “The two best things that ever happened in my life occurred on two fortuitous moments — the summer afternoon when I was 15 and met Barbara on the Milford shore, and the spring morning I first set foot on the St. Joe’s campus.”

It was Barbara who cared for him during his years with Alzheimer’s, forever at his side, which is a lesson for all of us about the enduring power of love and the permanence of a marriage that lasts 60 years.

We often talked about our childhood because, as two Italian guys from the Valley, we shared the same sad fate — our fathers could be abusive. Once we even cried over the emotional void that you have when your father can’t utter the three simple words, “I love you.” I never got to tell him about my student who endured a similar childhood and found acceptance in the realization that “Hurt people hurt people.”

If you’ve ever lost someone you love, you’ve probably stood vigil at the wake, while friends, family members and well-wishers walk by and offer condolences. Some may pause for a moment to share a story about how the person you lost changed their life with a kind act, a simple favor, or a smile.

Those memories last forever, and I suspect that Norman created millions of them. You see, everyone who knew him has a Norm DeTullio story.

He had a gift. No matter who you were and no matter what you did, he made you feel good about yourself. He made you believe you had value. He made you laugh. He helped you realize you were special.

I experienced it time and again. It was like magic, but it wasn’t magic. It was grace.

They say that when we die we don’t take anything with us except the good we’ve done, the love we’ve shared, the compassion we’ve shown. If that’s true — and I believe it is — Norman’s arms are full and overflowing.

Rest in peace my friend, until we meet again.

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