In Tribute to Boza Red

It was in 1958; my fourteenth year; when we met; “Boza Red,” my most unforgettable character; retired (early, I think), red hair streaked with grey, walking with a spring in his step, somewhat stooped; what a memory!

Mom and Dad were school custodians staff and had my brother and me helping before and after school. We were paid an “increased” allowance, half of which Dad kept to help pay for “our” boat and “our” car. We had no choice on those work-and-pay points. I wasn’t too happy when Dad bought the boat for “us” without consulting us. It seemed like one more way to tie us to his wants.

At day’s end, I gladly went to take down the flag. It was one of few times I got away from my parents during the school year. The togetherness was virtually 24/7; little matter that I was “away” from them during classes. In our small school they were close with my teachers; seemingly bringing them right into the classroom. Being with Mom and Dad during the day and with all of us under the same roof all evening and night, only on Sunday evenings with our church youth group did I get a much of a break from their hovering presence.

One evening as I was lowering the flag, along came this red-haired, slightly balding man who became an badly-needed, anticipated friend. As he walked along over and over he sang, “I’m Boza Boza Red.” I heard no more of his ditty, just the one line, and I heard his real name only once from a family friend named Glen three years later. I knew him only by the name he sang the day we met; “Boza Red.”

Over the next two before we moved away, I would look for Red almost everywhere. He was an older person representing no threat to this adolescent boy. There were few if any as significant as he, especially at my fundamentalist church where it seemed that the answer to everything was, “Are you saved?”

At age sixteen I got my driver license. I knew Red walked everywhere, but I would still stop to offer a ride. He always declined; preferring to walk. Only once, in a pouring rain, did he accept.

I learned Boza Red’s story and his name on graduation night a state away. Glen drove in some 200 miles for the evening. I told of my experience with “Red” as we visited, commenting on him walking everywhere. Glen filled in blanks. He knew Red well. He told me my friend’s real name (which didn’t register with me at all), and how he knew him years before when he was the shoe-shine boy at his brother’s barber shop where Red was a regular.

A few years before I met Red he came to Art’s Barber Shop for a haircut, shave, and a shine. His tips that day were unusually large. Then, as he left he told them that he had come to say, “Good-bye.”

Earlier in the day he was in the hospital after testing. The doctor’s news wasn’t good. He had maybe six months to live. Hearing that, Red got out of bed, went to the closet, removed his hospital gown and began dressing. His alarmed physician asked what he was doing.

Red turned, “If I have six months to live, I’m going out there to live.”

“But, if you leave the hospital, you won’t last that long.”

“Then, Doctor, at least I won’t be just dieing. I’ll be living to the end.”

With that, Red left the hospital, said his good-byes and set about his “last days;” six months that grew to at least six or eight years.

So that was “Boza Red’s” story. He was a man who wouldn’t give in to dour predictions or negative outlooks. He was determined to enjoy his days; short in number or long. Recognizing his obligation to opt each day for once more accessing the precious gift of life; he beat the odds.

Red wasn’t first to be placed on a health-related, virtual death sentence. He won’t be the last. The future will certainly visit such sentence upon myriads more; likely even me. I’m also certain that multitudes more have beat those odds as did Red, as will many more in time to come. I am equally sure that many with better odds will never make the decision that breathed new life into my friend. They will spend the rest of their lives dieing instead of living a lasting blessing for others.

It goes without saying that many who make the decision Red made that day so many years ago will live as he did. Relatively few will be able to change the odds, receiving; and giving; the blessing of his miracle.

I; WE can help others too. We can bring renewed strength by our presence, encouraging others in their daily decisions for life.

Boza Red even in his absence has always been a source of strength for me.

Are you “Boza Red” to someone?

AN EPILOGUE:

I’m sure that “Boza Red’s” spirit is still walking the streets of my teenage home. If he should come to you, please thank him for me.