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 ;)

Walking Girl

This morning I went for a walk with a couple of the Taylor siblings, kind of. A bracelet Sister Kate made for me was on my wrist, James was on my iPOD and I was present in the moment. Something in the way he sings is entirely comforting to me as is the rhythm of walking. My neighborhood is laced with an occasional sidewalk but primarily I am in the street or on the dirt. There is a great benefit to walking and being aware of your local geography. It opens up your perspective when walking, a different understanding of the landscape rather than to zip by in a car at 40 miles per hour and believe you know your way home.

So many ancient and indigenous cultures recognize sacred geography and in their alignment with spirit lived, prayed and communed in sacred earth. The land where I live belonged to the Ramapough and I have been told is charged by a vortex that emanates from the Ramapo Mountains. That’s the little I know about the background of these meandering roads however I know a bit more of sacred geometry, which I learned from my seashell collection. I’ve always had a love for the sparkle of a seashell tossed within my reach on the shoreline. My affinity with American Indian art translated early on to seashells and jewelry. I have two beautiful bracelets of wampum. Friends gave me one and it is an intricate silver cuff with a deep purple shell made by a traditional artist. The other bracelet is made of sea glass and beads by Kate Taylor. I had seen her work in a magazine article about artists on Martha’s Vineyard following an award she had won. I instantly loved her way of combining the shells with resin and sea glass, in contemporary design, creating necklaces, bracelets, belts and unique pieces.

I kept the article for years and then one night, at a ‘meet and greet’ following a Fab Faux show at Radio City Music Hall, I walked into the room filled with 300 people and noticed a woman in velvet, lace and wampum, the very enchanting Kate Taylor. We met and it was easy to reference what I knew of her art since she was wearing several exquisite pieces. She was lovely and it was a conversation that STILL MAKES ME SMILE. Her warmth and beauty clearly evident in her art and it was at that time that we exchanged email and I was able to commission a bracelet. Two months later she was touring in NJ opening for the band America when much to my happiness I met with her again to pick it up.

Originally, it was as Sister Kate that I remembered her opening for America in the 70’s. My Rolling Stone collection from back in the day verifies it as well. Since then I’ve heard her perform in the city and I remain in amazement at what the Universe has brought to my own landscape. To have read of her and kept the Rolling Stone , to find out of her talent with wampum jewelry keeping the article out of admiration and then to meet her by chance while at work, I just can’t help believe it’s not serendipitous or part of the sacred geography of the path I walk. Hopefully it will continue to take me hOMe.

Geronimo

Once upon a time it was 1970 something and the radio was playing in my mothers kitchen. The song was about Geronimo riding in a Cadillac and I was young enough to not quite get it although I really liked the song. My Dad was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a Budweiser and checking his lottery tickets. I asked him what it was about. I had never heard of Geronimo’s Cadillac and didn’t understand the song. He replied it was one of the ways the government tried to dehumanized Indians by allowing cars to be named after their people or their tribes. He said the car companies would never think to name a car after an English King or any other ethnic group. You could never call a jeep a Grand Jew or a mustang after Mussolini.

Fast forward to 1990 something and I’m watching a late night talk show and an American Indian musician is playing the flute. The music was a beautiful enchantment and I watched not wanting the song to end. He then sat down for a brief interview and the enchantment continued. He was engaging, interesting and just had a way about him that was infinitely cool.

The next morning I remembered the whole scene……….. except for his name. Whenever I found myself in a record store I would ask for help, not able to offer too many details other than he was Indian and he played flute. An obliging employee would walk me over to the World Music section and hand me a CD of R. Carlos Nakai. While I can appreciate Nakai’s music and I have seen him live, for me it doesn’t hold a candle to the man I heard playing the traditional wood flute that late night.

His music remained in my heart and I never stopped looking. One day in the World Music section I saw a CD by Bill Miller. I was convinced he wasn’t the musician I remembered because he primarily played guitar on this CD but the last song was Geronimo’s Cadillac so I decided to buy it anyway. For some reason that early interaction with my Dad regarding the lyrics remained etched in my mind. Four of my Dad’s step brothers were raised on the St. Regis Indian Reservation in Canada so my Dad had insight to the American History that the teachers in school never taught. I learned those stories at home instead.

Anyway, I had found him! The CD was Reservation Road. Part of it was live and all of it was wonderful. I became a repeat offender catching his shows at Music at the Mansion, The Towne Crier, Bergen Community College and Cabin Concerts in Wayne. That was my favorite show because he asked if anyone had a request. Several people called out songs and I was the last to summon up the courage to ask for Geronimo’s Cadillac. He looked up from where he sat and asked, “Who said that?” I was so shy. I tried to blend into the wall and whispered “me” at the same time. One month from today however this wall flower will be ever so pleased to present Mr. Bill Miller at Mexicali Live in Teaneck. It will be a great honor for me. It is his first area show since winning his THIRD GRAMMY. And so the enchantment continues. Can you hear my smile?

Code Talkers

Last week the telephone rang jarring me out of a daydream. I reached for it with reluctance until….my eye caught the area code that had appeared on the caller id. 605. A happy rush flooded me as I was greeted with “Hello”. Cheryl Between Lodges was calling to shoot the breeze from Pine Ridge, South Dakota. Pine Ridge is the heartbeat of the Oglala Indians of the Lakota Nation. The reservation is in Shannon County, the poorest in the United States. Due to some crafty politicking it is not identified as such with the census because Independent Indian Nations are not included in the census statistics. The photo on the left was taken by Hector Emanuel. More of his work can be seen at www.still-standing.com. Recently photographer Aaron Huey visited and the link on the right will bring you to his photo essay. Please visit these sites to learn what teachers never taught you in school. Anyway, I have never met Cheryl however I consider her a highlight in my life and believe we became friends through an unseen code of the universe.

In the early winter of 1997 I was in Barnes and Noble with my kids so they could spend their Christmas gift cards. Through a miscellany of means, actually Russell Means, I bent down to tie my youngest child’s shoe and when I looked up on the shelf was a book entitled “Where White Men Fear to Tread”. I remembered news reports of the author Russell Means. Back in the day, before TV was censored, the Vietnam War raged daily, protests shed light on “everyday” peoples perspective and Wounded Knee unfolded on the TV screen in my mothers kitchen. The book ignited my desire to filter through my childhood memories and to hear his story. The book captivated me and I was unable to put it down. I finished it a week later feeling angry and lost. I needed to hear more stories. I went through the “Mom motions” at home but my thoughts wandered to Pine Ridge wondering constantly what it was like. On the third day after I finished the book, just as the sun was setting, my phone rang. It was before caller id. I picked it up and a woman identified herself as Violet Means. She was calling from the Native American Heritage Association looking for money to help with their fuel drive to heat the homes of elders. I was stunned and said yes to everything she asked. She seemed stunned that I was so agreeable. The next day I sent a check for $25 to NAHA. Several months later South Dakota called again. This time I asked how they got my number and was told they have a list that they call seeking donations. To this day I have no idea how I got on the list. I had asked my Ramsey friends and none of them were ever called. Also, I had paid for the book with the gift card so there was no way to track it….

“Mean” while I began to look on line and found a woman seeking toy donations for the Head Start Program in Pine Ridge. I had many things to send having four children and working in an area preschool. I sent along boxes and from then on did so almost obsessively. Cheryl left Head Start but fosters 3 boys slightly younger than my own so I have sent new and gently used books, toys, clothes and food for about 13 years now. She calls me from time to time and we share stories of family, work and life. I feel so lucky to be able to send things and fortunate to share the code of friendship with her.

To me, area code 605 is synonymous with the Universe sharing its very own code of Love. It’s another story of serendipitous magick that can reach anywhere and tie together heartstrings, not shoe strings. And now I have to go, I hear the phone ringing…It may be area code 605. Can you hear me smile?