December, 2002

I did not realize the value of a good friend until I lost one.  It is perhaps a clichéd thought, but it is foremost in my mind right now, with the holidays just around the corner, a time of joy and celebration, of giving from the heart.  I lost him to death, the kind that strikes young in life and whose icy hand defies attempts to ward off its finality. 

This story is about him, Bo Peele, a true friend, and one I still miss.

Losing a Friend

Bo Peele was a big guy, in spirit and in size.  I heard him before I ever saw him, though his voice was gentle and his manner kind.  He was a teacher in the new school where I was to work.  There aren’t many men in elementary schools, and more are really needed.  Students need male role models, and Bo was certainly a man to admire.

Bo spoke with a southern drawl, which enabled him to say the most outrageous things while still sounding like a gentleman.  The kids adored him, this giant amongst us.  He was strict, he was fair, and he loved them all.  He was a source of sudden amusement and instant connection.  I liked him. We saw each other only here and there throughout the day, but we always exchanged a wave and a breezy remark.  He thought I was funny, perhaps I am.  He loved working with my students because he could always count on them to be ready, willing, and doing their best.  We supported each other’s ideals in our work. 

I had no idea how sick he was.  But one day he sat down with me in the lunchroom with kids milling about.  “I’m going into the hospital,” he said.  “I’m waiting for a kidney, a liver, whatever I can get, I need everything replaced.”  I was without comment, this couldn’t be true.  He was big, he was strong; he was dying inside.  I felt honored he’d shared this with me, my gentle giant of a friend.   

While he was away I had my students write wonderful letters and cards with pictures.  We expressed our concern and told him how much we missed him.  I made a drawing for him, of an Igloo ice chest being delivered to him at the hospital, with a lid that opened and an array of internal organs inside.  I wrote, “You can have half my liver, a kidney or two, even some bone marrow, but you can’t have my candy bar.”   I knew this would make him laugh; he was always mooching sweets from my desk. 

In a week or so Bo was back at school.  The kids were jubilant, Mr. Peele had returned!  He ambled into my classroom, bellowed his hellos, and flopped into a desk.  “Miz Cosby,” he drawled, “I want to be your next husband.”  “Huh?” I replied, not sure I’d heard right, such a tease that he was.  He repeated it now, with the kids all around.  “I thought about you in the hospital,” he continued.  “And I want to spend the rest of my life with someone so kind.”  I brushed it off, joked that I was way too old for him, grandma that I am.  The kids roared with laughter, rolled on the floor.  The image just tickled them to pieces.

The call came just after Thanksgiving holiday.  Bo was dead.  The diseased organs had all failed, and he’d passed on in the night.   No, it can’t be.  My concern was for the children, how would they ever take the news?  And I had to tell them.  I don’t think I have ever faced anything so heart-wrenching, so riddled with grief, as to tell those who loved him that he would not return.  I rehearsed what to say, dealt with some issues, was prepared for the worse.

The tears started as I walked toward the school.  Not weeping or sobbing or anything that raw.  Just a burning in my eyes that would not go away and a steady stream of tears that rolled down my cheeks and fell onto my dress.  Von’Travis was the first of my students I saw.  I automatically lifted my arm for him, as he always sought that safe place tucked into my hug.  He leaned close, as he does, a frown on his face.  “Ms. Cosby, why is everyone crying?” he asked me.  “Mr. Peele is dead.” I barely could speak.  No cushion there.  Where were all my plans for comforting words?  “He died last Friday, he was so very ill.”  Von’Travis leaned closer, his head on my shoulder, as I lifted my other arm and gathered others around me. 

The day began in soft whispers, as students arrived, as the news spread around.  Kids wept or stood stricken.  Mothers arrived in despair.  I stood in my doorway, greeting students as I always do, “Good morning.  How are you?” my morning routine.   I held children close, more for me than for them, I needed their closeness to help me move on.  My principal stopped to see each one of us.  “How very brave you are,” I told her, “to have to break this news to everyone.”  Her face was white, her features grim, she was hanging on for all of us.  “I can’t stop crying,” I told her.  “I’m such a mess.”  She patted me gently, and told me it was okay.  “Crying is good, it shows how we feel.”  She moved on to the next one, gently touching all those she passed.

We wrote in our journals, sat close to best friends.  We walked through the motions of a day on its way.  We shared tissues and water, took time out to smile.  We remembered his kindness, his greatness, his warmth. 

It’s been a year now, and I still have my little guys lean into me and whisper, “I miss Mr. Peele.”  Out of the blue, for no special reason.  Sometimes I, too, look down the long hallway and half expect to hear his booming voice before he ever appears.  We talked of this just the other day, my boys and I.  They cried right there, in the lunchroom, still thinking of him.  “It’s okay,” I said, “It shows we remember, how much we cared, how much you were loved.”  We’ll miss him forever, no doubt about that.

Bo’s parents stopped by school just the other day, to remember his friends, they said.  They brought each one of us a small poinsettia, the flower of the Carolinas. What a fitting tribute to Bo, what a kind and caring way to share the holiday spirit in the midst of their grief.  

The poinsettia was named after John Poinsett, a native Charlestonian, who first saw them on a trip to Mexico in 1825 as the United States’ first minister there. 

An avid botanist, Poinsett found the colorful flower for sale in every marketplace.  Mexicans called it “The Flower of the Holy Night” because it was at the height of its brilliance on December 25.

 Poinsett examined the plant and discovered that the bright red displays were not blossoms but bracts, petal-like leaves.   The true flower of the plant is the tiny but vivid yellow cluster at the center.

 In the midst of political dissent, Poinsett was forced to leave Mexico City on Christmas Day 1829, taking with him cuttings of the wildflower that to Mexicans was simply a weed, except at Christmas.

When I lived in Santa Barbara I saw poinsettias growing wild on hillsides as huge shrubs with the brilliant scarlet bracts often a foot in diameter on the end of stems taller than I am.  I would cut armloads of them to decorate my home for the holidays in that Mediterranean-like climate.  Here in Charleston I continue to arrange many of them outside my doorways, in pink and white as well as the traditional red.

And for all of you who will be decorating for the holidays with a poinsettia of your own, remember its origins, its history, and those friends of yours who mean so much.  I wish you all the joys of the season as you celebrate with family and friends.  Perhaps you, too, will share the poinsettia with a special and treasured friend.

Florence