Eulogy for Madison Taylor March 19, 2022 | Roselee Papandrea Taylor

Fate? Destiny? Divine intervention? A mother looking out for her youngest daughter from the heavens above?

I don’t know why the stars aligned in 1995 –– the year Madison and I met –– I only know that it changed my life forever.

When I moved to North Carolina on the last day of February that year, I didn’t have a job or a plan, other than I wanted to be there for my father. My mother had died the previous September and my father, who had retired and moved to Swansboro along with my mother in November 1993, was suddenly alone. I was living in Oklahoma at the time and after the loss of my mom, I wanted more time with family.

Miraculously, within days of my arrival to North Carolina, a reporter’s position opened at The Daily News in Jacksonville, so I applied. The day before my interview, my sister Annmarie started nudging me about the managing editor at the newspaper. You all know who that was, of course. It was Madison.

Dean, one of Annmarie’s co-workers at the bank where she worked, knew Madison’s family. Dean’s husband had worked with Madison’s father, Ed, at RJ Reynolds in Winston-Salem. Dean told my sister lots of good things about Madison, and the wheels in my sister’s head started turning. I had just got out of a relationship and was not looking for another one so soon, and I certainly wasn’t looking for one on my job interview, which I conveyed very clearly to my sister.

The next day, I interviewed with Elliott Potter, the executive editor at the time, and Madison. He was a youngish guy. Windblown hair. Navy cashmere sweater. Smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. Smart. Personable. Charming. I liked him immediately. Not liked him liked him, but I liked him.

Although I had a print journalism degree from Syracuse, I had spent most of my days post college working with homeless people at the Catholic Worker in Las Vegas and then L.A. I wrote articles during that time, but my days meeting hardcore daily deadlines were few and far between. I had internships, a previous job at a weekly, some freelance work and a decent clip book, but I really wasn’t sure how marketable I’d seem to Elliott and Madison. Still, my conversations with both were easy. At one point I told them that I’d always consider the feelings of victims first and that, to me, no story was worth crossing that line. I figured I had just sabotaged my chances at the job but neither flinched.    

That evening, my sister asked if I had met Madison and I told her he had interviewed me. “Well? she asked. “Well, I hope I got the job,” I answered, hoping to put an end to my sister’s sudden interest in matchmaking. Surprisingly, I did get the job. Later, I found out that when others in the newsroom asked about this new reporter that Elliott hired, Madison said: “She’s more liberal than Jackie.”          

I guess you need to know Jackie to know just how liberal that is.    

Fast forward to fall of that year. I was running regularly at that time and developed a route in downtown Swansboro so I could take advantage of waterfront views. I knew Madison lived in Swansboro, but I didn’t know where. During one of my runs, I heard someone calling me from a porch. It was Madison. He was reading a book and taking advantage of the sunshine and views of the White Oak River behind me. We chatted a bit, although I stayed in the street because he wasn’t wearing a shirt and, you know, he was my boss.

When an antique mall opened near Swansboro, Madison and I had both expressed wanting to walk through it and chatted about going together some Saturday. But we never made definitive plans. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just ask me to go. I found out later that he didn’t want to put pressure on me because he liked me –– liked me liked me –– and he was my boss. The scary part of this story is that ultimately the fate of our relationship was in my hands. I remember holding the phone, trying to decide if I should call him. Clearly, I did but there was definitely a lot of back and forth in my brain before dialing his number. We went to the antique mall and for coffee after. The next day we took a long walk along the water. It was then that I realized how much I liked him. You know, liked him liked him.

He was witty and made me laugh. He asked a lot of questions and gave me space to answer. Even though I had grown up in a big, loud Italian family in the suburbs of NY and he a more subdued family in a small town in the foothills of North Carolina, we shared a lot of common ground. We decided on the night before Thanksgiving that we were officially dating. He had to work on Thanksgiving Day and on his way to the paper, he stopped at my father’s house where we were setting up the tree lot for the Christmas season.

My father was standing by the garage holding a cup of coffee when Madison pulled up. I introduced them. My father immediately offered Madison coffee and a cookie, and we chatted a bit. During a lull in the conversation, my father, an Italian immigrant who learned English from Elvis Presley movies and 1950s TV programming, looked at the two of us, pointed with his half-eaten cookie and said: “Lois and Cluck.” 

I guess we really were a match made in heaven or at least on “Superman.”

Madison was a true partner in every sense of the word. We shared a lot of time together. I’m so grateful for that. We worked together 22 of the 27 years we knew each other. First, in an open newsroom and until last September, just a building apart here at Elon. People often asked if it was hard to work with each other. Of course, it wasn’t. Madison always told people that it was easy to work with your best friend, and I think that’s a big part of the reason why our relationship worked so well. It was easy. We were best friends. We were co-workers. We knew the ins and outs of each other’s days. We talked and laughed a lot and also spent plenty of time quiet in the same room, lost in a book or our own thoughts, but comfortable because we were together.

Madison adored my Italian family. It seemed like he had special relationships with everyone from my father to my siblings, Annmarie, Ross, Vinnie, Tanya and Michael and their children, Jeff, Rossi, Megan, Melanie, Michelle, Ariel, Joey, Joe and Vinnie.

My father adored and respected Madison. He loved to cook for him and watch him eat. My dad also considered Madison an authority on everything. Whenever my father had a question about anything, he’d say, “Hey, Medicine,” believing that Madison had the answer. I won’t share them here, but some of my dad’s questions were quite comical. And even when he was amused, Madison answered them with the seriousness they deserved.

Madison loved our annual Big Dinner that we held at our house the weekend before Thanksgiving. My family would fill our modest home. It was crowded and loud. There was food, drink, music, games and so much laughter. And Madison, a proud and gracious host, enjoyed every minute of it, capturing so much of it in photos and videos. I’m not sure what will become of that Big Dinner now. I can’t imagine having it without him, but I’m hoping he will guide me on the best thing to do for all of us.

Truly a product of his parents, Ed and Barbara, particularly his mom, Madison was always incredibly polite. He made a point to remember people’s names and used them often during conversation. When someone remembers your name and uses it often, I think it makes you feel seen. Madison made people feel seen. Honestly, I never once made him a meal that he didn’t thank me for afterward. He was a true gentleman. He was so polite that when he’d come home in the evening and tell Alexa to “turn on the lights,” he’d actually thank her when the room lit up.

He grew up in a very small town. We are talking about a population of about 160 people. It’s a place that held so many special memories for him. Over the years, he wrote several columns and blogs about the joys of growing up in Danbury with his younger brother Spotswood. This is from one of his blogs:

“I remember tubing on the Dan River and beer can races and throwing rocks at water moccasins just to see if we could make them move from the rocky bluff across the way. I remember wandering through the courthouse until being asked to leave and sitting on the courthouse square with the houseman Ben Frank Davis and asking him every day why he drank Fresca. “Just coolin’ it,” old Ben would say. … I remember night baseball only this was played with long cane fishing rods as we tried to hit the bats flying around the streetlamp at the Hammett house. And I remember going home to the house up on the hill and thinking, damn that was all fun.”

Madison loved stories. He loved reading them, listening to them and above all else, writing them. He submitted his first story to the Danbury Reporter when he was just 12. It was about a Little League game that he played in. As he would say, “no conflict of interest there.” It was his dream to be a sports reporter.

From his blog:

“Luckily, I was raised by encouraging parents and a mother who had dabbled in journalism as a career. I read everything I could get, watched sports on TV without end and imitated broadcasters on ACC basketball games into a tape recorder when local teams played. It was my goal to cover ACC Tournaments, World Series and Super Bowls.”

As many of you know, he loved the St. Louis Cardinals. I tried very hard to schedule vacations in places where the Cardinals were playing so he could watch them play in person. There were many more stadiums to visit and games to watch, but I’m grateful we caught the games that we did. I’ll never forget watching Mark McGwire hit his 62nd homerun on a 2-inch battery operated TV on our front porch in Cape Carteret because the reception was better out there. It was early September 1998 and for those of you here today from Eastern North Carolina, you know that thunderstorms, tropical storms and hurricanes love September. That night our power was out so we watched and celebrated out on the porch. Of course, it was later revealed that McGwire was using steroids at the time. A noble and principled guy, Madison had no use for Mark McGwire after that. The front page of the newspaper marking that historic event that I had framed came down, and we never talked about it again.

I knew Madison for a long time and could stand here for hours sharing stories about him. He was the love of my life, my constant, as I often told him. I loved how he and I made the most of ordinary moments. I loved that it meant as much to him as it did to me because we never really know when our last day will come.

When Madison ended up in the hospital in mid-September, neither of us expected that his life would take such a turn. He took really good care of himself. He loved good food, cube steak, mashed potatoes, cookies and doughnuts, but he ate healthy most of the time. I gave him a Fitbit a few years ago and when he realized he could track his progress on an app, he made it his mission to walk often –– 20,000 steps a day to be exact. He broke that streak a few days before I took him to the hospital.

That’s why we both believed he would get better and get back to the life he had before his lungs started giving out. Instead, he seemed to get weaker and weaker, the quality of his life diminishing. The last quarter of 2021 was tough. Despite that, I will always be grateful that I had the opportunity to care for my husband during that most difficult time. I loved him dearly and there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him. Toward the end, when he was struggling to breathe and knew he was dying, his biggest worry was me and leaving me behind.

After his death, so many wanted to reassure me how much Madison loved and cared for me. While there was so much that I didn’t know or understand about God’s plan, I knew for sure that Madison loved me. I was the center of his universe and he mine and not a day went by that he didn’t let me know that. I understand the preciousness of that gift God gave me, that Madison gave me, and while this loss cuts so deep that I can’t even fully comprehend it yet, I remain grateful that I was loved by that man.

So as all of us ready to part ways, I ask that you leave here willing to live your lives to the fullest in memory of Madison. Make the most of ordinary moments. Be polite. Watch baseball. Support your local downtowns. Drink a beer on the patio on Friday evenings. End your days thinking “damn that was fun.”

Laugh.

And love with all your heart.