I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And, that brings me to a point I want — and need — to make.
Yesterday afternoon I was walking through the front yard with one of the neighborhood children. He’s the cutest little boy you would ever want to see. According to him, he does not live in our neighborhood, but then again that depends on who you consider a neighbor, doesn’t it?
Anyway, the kid lives a few blocks from the foot of the mountain. Most days, especially on weekends, he walks the two blocks, then walks up the steep road that leads to the mountain brow. He walks 2.5 miles along the crest to either visit Happy, Miranda, or me. Occasionally, he stops in to see Miss Bessie and Mrs. Hildebrand.
Yesterday the child appeared to show off his newly done dreadlocks. I think he was very proud that his hair has grown sufficiently to allow for more than the corn rows. Anyway, he’s nine and full of curiosity. A few weeks ago he didn’t show up for a few days so Happy and I went to find him. He had been in a fight with his next door neighbor and was grounded.
But, yesterday the child showed up to show off his new “do.” He was remarkably quiet, but he had something on his mind. I took him by the hand and suggested that we go for a walk down to the cabin to see what the others were doing — they were building a solar panel.
Wildflower
As we walked through the front yard towards the back I happened to bend over and pull a stray weed and toss it aside. I heard the child mumble something. When I asked him to repeat it he said, “I guess I’m a weed.” We took a detour to the front porch. I brought out a pitcher of lemonade and a photo album. As we talked, sipped the beverages, and turned the pages of pictures, I showed the child a few of my favorite pictures.
White flowers
We looked at the flowers very carefully. The photos are much more detailed than these images. I asked the child to tell me what he saw. He described the blue flower as a “butterfly” flower because the blue petals are thin and delicate like a butterfly’s wings and the stamen are like butterfly antennae. He described the shade of blue as “Michael Jordan blue” but we all know he meant Carolina blue. Honestly, I had not thought of that, but was more than pleased that he had.
As we looked at the white flowers, the child’s eyes filled with imagination. He described the middle one of the three as a summer snowflake. Well, as you can tell, this child is anything but a weed. He is a brilliant little guy and very perceptive.
The opportunity presented itself and the conversation had relaxed him enough for me to ask, “So, why do you think you are a weed?”
The child explained that he lived in a bad neighborhood and that he doesn’t have all the fine “stuff” that most of his school mates have. (School started last week.) The “school stuff” is easy to remedy. The child’s perception of himself — well, that’s a different situation. But, it was worth a try.
I closed the photo album, picked up the camera and told the child it was time to go to the cabin and help build the solar panel. But, we were going to take the old path to the cabin, not the newer wide one the kids and men built this year.
Along the way, I had to opportunity to show the child some “weeds.”
Blue flowers along the old walkway
As we were about to leave the sidewalk and step onto the path, I kicked at the flowers in the picture above. The child noticed and said, “Don’t crush them, Mrs. Perretti. Those are the little blue butterfly flowers.”
“They look like weeds to me.”
“You are teaching me something today, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know. Am I?”
We walked along the old chain link fence a little farther.
“There are all the snowflakes!” The child pointed with delight.
Cascading white flowers
“No, Marcus, those are weeds.”
“No, they aren’t Mrs. Perretti. They are the snowflake flowers. Lots of snowflakes …. in summer!”
“Marcus, flowers only grow in perfect surroundings. These must be weeds.”
“No, ma’am! These are flowers and you know it. They are even prettier than the other flowers.” The child began to dance around. I let go of his hand so he could touch all the white flowers and the blue flowers and the pink flowers…. “I love these flowers the best, because they are different. They stand out. All your other flowers are all put together in one place.”
“In flower beds….” I mumbled.
“You like these the best, too, don’t you?”
Well, maybe I do. These little flowers are gifts — unexpected gifts — that just appear each year and grow bigger and better. Marcus is like the wild flowers. He is a gift and now he knows he is a flower, not a weed.
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