My mother taught in room 150 at North Forsyth High School. Right beside the boy’s gym.
(Long before the days when every venue had a sponsor name or a memorial plaque at the main entrance.) The Viking basketball teams played in the boy’s gym. The girl’s gym was reserved for volleyball and wrestling and P.E. classes.
Room 150 on the left. The music office (which was neither an office nor a repository of choral music) was on the right. The entrance to the boy’s gym on the left. Men’s locker rooms were to the right. (Once you entered, varsity to the right and the junior varsity to the left.) I never understood why you were a man in the locker room but a boy on the court. The weight room was a mysterious place just beyond the locker room entrance. And Olon Shuler’s classroom sat at the far end of the hall. That was it. One set of lockers. Maggie Griffin, Gray Cartwright and Olon Shuler.
People would never believe everything that happened in that hallway.
Anyway, I went to my mama’s room everyday after school. It was where the group gathered. Room 150. I loved that room. Home.
10th grade. I walked in and dropped my book bag. (We didn’t do backpacks.) The regulars were there. And one kid I didn’t know. He was wearing a letter jacket and he had a terrible haircut. Big boy. Not as big as me, but far from frail.
With no warning and even less reason, he bolted from his chair, ran toward me and started rubbing my belly.
“What’s up, Jeff?!?!”
First off, I’m Jeffrey. I’ve never been particularly fond of “Jeff.” Only people who don’t know me address me as Jeff. It’s a rule.
There are three exceptions to the “Jeff Rule.” Uncle Larry, Dennis Moser and Beau Childress. Uncle Larry was the best man at my wedding. Dennis Moser hired me for my first teaching job.
And Beau.
I couldn’t stand him. He was obnoxious. Loud. Opinionated. He spoke with the wrong emphasis on the wrong syllable. He would frequently pick me up and throw me around like I was a teddy bear.
My mother loved him. Beau immediately became one of the chosen few. He was everywhere we were. He grew on me. Obnoxious, loud and opinionated can be inexplicably appealing. We became inseparable.
Beau didn’t grow up in a big house. He didn’t eat at expensive restaurants.
He ate with us. My mother used to take both of us to the Sear’s Surplus Center in Greensboro and buy us clothes. She tangled with Bob Goodwin about Beau’s grade in junior English. She tangled with Goodwin about my grade in junior English, too.
She gave him roles in every play and musical. Beau was Margaret’s other son.
The people in Guidance pretty much gave up. Beau could stay in school if my mother would keep him all day and IF he would stay with her all day. Margaret and Beau were as happy as could be with that arrangement.
Teachers collect favors. They might deny knowledge of the practice, but it happens. “I’ll do this if you’ll do that…”
Graduation. My mama called in several favors and Beau was set to walk the walk.
Beau taught me how to socialize. We partied with kids from North. And Tabor. And East. And Reynolds. And West.
Girls loved Beau. It was incredible to watch. He asked out the prima ballerina from the North Carolina Dance Theatre when they visited North. I’m convinced she was about to say “Yes,” until an unwelcome intervention by an unnamed assistant principal destroyed the moment.
Beau drank. A lot. I thought nothing of it at the time. He taught me how to drink.
Beau fought. He kept brass knuckles in his pocket in case somebody made him mad. He did not teach me how to fight.
Beau played football. Beau wrestled. Life with Beau was incredibly fun. It was never dull.
I went to college and fell apart. Beau stayed home and fell apart.
He joined the Navy. I was worried. He survived.
He met Jenae. They were here. Salt Lake City. Oklahoma.
His life happened and my life happened. Beau and Jenae returned to Winston-Salem with their children. Nothing made my mother happier than time with her other son and his sons.
Occasionally, Beau would call me and ask if I had heard from Al Doomy. Alva Showman Doomy was another North Forsyth under-achiever (and adopted son of Margaret Griffin) who decided to listen to God. Al married Joy. They made babies and headed to Siberia to introduce Jesus to abandoned kids on the street.
Our conversation was always the same.
“Jeff, Beau. Have you heard from Al?”
“Nope.”
“If he gets caught, they’ll put him in prison. Then we’ll have to go get him out. I hope you’re ready.”
Beau went to college while working and taking care of his family. He stopped drinking. He teaches high school. A graduate degree. He coaches football and tennis and softball. And wrestling. His girl’s wrestling team will advance to the Oklahoma state meet for the first time in school history this year.
If Beau can do it, I can do it. Beau Childress is my hero. My brother. I would follow Beau into Hell, or Siberia, because I’m absolutely convinced he would get us back home.
It took us a truckload of mistakes and the absence of good judgment and common sense, but we’ve both made it back home. Jenae and Vikki. Our children. Teaching.
I know no finer man than Beau Childress. Love you, brother.
Jeffrey Griffin 