Weed

In Honor of My Father and Family.......

Defining moments are really what shape people although many little moments become deeply buried in their being, in their heart. This is my story of little moments and the weaving of family interactions and love that was given to me long ago.

When my father was nine years old, his Father died. My Grandmother had five children, my father being the youngest. She remarried several years later. My Step Grandpa also had five children, so my Dad gained four step brothers and a stepsister. They were American Indian, and all but Aunt Gertrude were raised on a reservation in Canada in tradition of their mothers family. Needless to say, they had their own way of looking at the world and their own brand of humor. My Dad married my Mom at thirty, so by the time I can remember family gatherings I was one of the littlest. Most of my cousins, from this combined Irish-Italian-Scottish-Indian mélange, were older than me. Between the ten siblings, their spouses and the assorted grandchildren every holiday at Grandma and Grandpa’s tiny cape cod style house was filled with people and most of the people were filled with alcohol. That being said, it brings me to the story at hand. My older cousins all had honorary Indian names. The boys had camp or sports related names while the girls had beautiful “Flower in the Rain” type names. At some point before my memory kicked in, I was given a name. Mine was definitely different. Baby Weed. Weed Baby. Tiny Weed. Sometimes it was Tumbleweed. Being ever so young, first I answered to it. As I grew, I began to realize that:

A. A weed is not a good flower.

B. None of the other girls had a funny name that made people smile when they called you.

For a long time I pretended it didn’t matter however just before entering first grade, after one particularly hot Fourth of July family picnic, I finally did complain to my own older step brothers. They laughed at me and replied, “Weed girl, it’s because you’re always playing in the dirt, and you never let anyone comb your hair, even for days. You actually look like a cross between and elf and a weed, an elfweed!” That night, looking in the mirror, I could see what they meant. I was old enough by then to realize I might be teased or even been given a worse name like maybe “stink weed” or “yucca tree girl”, so I continued to pretended not to be bothered by it and all the while the name remained.

The following May, it was time for First Holy Communion at my church. I was a year behind the Communion Class so it wasn’t my turn, though I remember vividly how beautiful the girls were all in white, wearing beaded veils and carrying flowers. It was the first time I noticed how the year older girls looked. My friend Sharon’s lovely dress, Susan’s lace gloves and Patty Kay’s unbelievably breathtaking hair. Ah yes, Patty Kay’s beautiful curled hair. I was amazed hair could be that pretty and stay in place. I was kneeling in church when I first noticed it. I looked for a minute, then turned away and began to pray for Patty Kay hair. I made up the pray myself and it was the only prayer I remembered for a long time. I believed God would be proud of me for writing my own prayer and one day I would wake up to the miracle of “Patty Kay Hair.” Every morning when I awoke I would run to the mirror to check but I had the same fine celtic locks as always. One day, I decided to try to create my own miracle. My mother had brought home Breck shampoo with Cybil Shepard on the label. In the 1960’s, the Breck girl surely was the “saint of beautiful hair.” I thought it was a sign from Heaven that my Mom had bought this bottle. I proceeded to wash my hair and included a Holy Water (procured from my church) rinse to be extra religious. Well, my hair was very clean and looked nice, but it wasn’t “Patty Kay Perfect in Church Hair.” Disappointed, I just continued to say my prayer each night and yes check the mirror, though not as often.

Later that Spring, my Aunt arrived to take me to the ballet at Lincoln Center. I was seven, in my prettiest dress, with my hair combed and pulled back in a ponytail. My Grandpa was driving us to the train station. My Aunt Jean was up front and I was in the backseat, feet not yet touching the floor when I heard it. Grandpa referred to me as “Weed” in his conversation. His reference to me was automatic, as were the tears that immediately ran down my face. I tried to stop but couldn’t. I was embarrassed because I had never cried in front of them before. Grandpa quickly stopped the car and they both got out and opened the back door. I could see they were upset and asked immediately what was wrong.

I just blurted out, “I’m wearing a dress, I’ve been washing my hair with Breck shampoo and waiting for beautiful hair but still you call me Weed. Of everyone I have the ugliest name of all. No weeds are beautiful. No one likes a weed. You pull them out of the garden to get rid of them.” They both looked startled but involuntarily managed the same old “Weed Girl” smile. I felt crushed, but my Grandpa didn’t miss a beat, he instantly replied, “You misunderstood all along. You were different. Flowers are delicate and temporary and need special care. You are delicate too, but tough. A weed can be pulled out of the garden thrown over the fence, blown in the breeze but it will take root again and grown even stronger. You were wrong. Many weeds are wild and beautiful. Some even bloom in the snow. You were born on a snowy day without even a doctor. Weeds can take care of themselves. Just like you.”

The rest of the drive to the train I proudly wore the “Weed Girl” smile. I sat on my Grandpa’s lap steering the car, all the car windows open, my ponytail pulled out, and my hair all tangled in the breeze and in the love of my family.

In the picture above my Dad is wearing the white carnation, holding a cigarette. My grandma is on the right and my Dad appears to be looking at her. Although the focus on her is a bit blurry she looks beautiful to me. It was way before I was born, unless of course you believe in simultaneous time ;)