8•8

A tribute to Frank Alexander Weems

August 8, 1921.
The day the earth got lucky.

He was born in a dusty, slow-moving town called Louisville, Georgia—population barely 2,000. I don’t know much about his upbringing except that it was hard, and that he worked the land with his father and brothers. Rumor has it his grandfather was a slave master. That his grandmother was always in the house, while the boys worked the fields. I don’t know what kind of boy he was, but I know what kind of man he became because he raised me.

Frank Alexander Weems.
My grandfather.
The man I called Daddy, because he was the father I never had.

He met my grandmother, Carrie, when they were just kids. He a teenager, she barely older than childhood. She lived in Savannah. They fell in love early and stayed in love forever. Eventually they left Georgia and headed North—first to Philadelphia, then Harlem. That’s where my mother was born, the youngest of four. And when I came into this world, they were the ones who took me in.

I don’t remember coming home from the hospital, but the story goes my mother brought me straight to my grandparents. And from that moment on, I belonged to them. They were so attached to me, my mother had to sneak me away when it came time for her to move. I wasn’t told this until later in life, but apparently my grandmother came home from work, saw the crib was gone, fell to the floor, and screamed.

I didn’t know then, but I know now—I was wanted. I was loved.

But life has a way of flipping the script. I ended up in the South Bronx, living with my mother in an abusive household. I won’t go too deep into that today because today is about him. Just know this: my grandfather rescued me. At twelve years old, bruised in every way a child can be, he and my grandmother came and brought me back home.

Home, for me, was a Co-op City apartment filled with morning routines and the smell of grits, eggs, and salmon. It was the sound of laughter, the rhythm of spades being slapped on a card table, the daily debates over the Daily News and Walker, Texas Ranger on the TV. Home was safety. Peace. Predictability. And him.

Frank Weems was tall, handsome, and carried himself with quiet dignity. His eyes were like calm waters that saw through your nonsense. Even retired, he wore a full suit every morning—up at 5:30AM, reading the paper, ready to greet the day. I never understood why he dressed up when he had nowhere to go, but now I think I do: dignity was his uniform.

We were alike, he and I. Same DNA. Same stubbornness. Same soul.
We hated grocery shopping, so we’d split the list and meet in the middle of the store—teamwork. We watched sports together, even though I didn’t care for the games—I just liked being near him. We played cards. Took walks. Talked about everything.

He loved nature and saw the universe as a symphony.
“The moon keeps the water from overflowing,” he once said, comparing the cosmos to a woman.
It went over my head back then, but I hear him now, clearer than ever.

People in the building came to him for advice. Especially the young men. When Daddy spoke, you listened. He could motivate anyone—just with his words. He had that kind of spirit. The kind that doesn’t just live—it lifts.

He was never sick. He said it all the time:
“I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”

And we believed him—because it was true… until it wasn’t.

It started small. Slower walks. Softer bones. Asking me not to drive over potholes. I had moved to Delaware and visited on weekends, so I missed the gradual changes. Then one day, during his favorite show—Walker Texas Ranger, with Chuck Norris kicking ass like usual—he sat down on the floor and couldn’t get up. That was the moment. The one that changed everything.

Colon and bone cancer. It had taken root in silence and spread like fire.

Watching him fade was like watching the sun set before noon. The pain was unbearable—for him and for us. I held his hand. Fed him ice cream. Told him I loved him as often as I could. There was nothing else to do.

He passed on February 27, 1998.
He left the pain behind and took his peace with him.
He gained his wings.

I see him still, in my mind—wiping the counters in his daily morning routine, humming his favorite song:
“You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
And he was right. I haven’t. I never will.

He wasn’t perfect. I learned some things after he died. But he was perfect for me. He was my Superman. He rescued me from a living hell and showed me what love looked like. What humanity looked like. What hope felt like.

He gave me a future.

And now here I am, a writer.
Just like him. A storyteller. Just like him.
I think he’d be proud.

So today, on 8•8, the day God blessed this earth with his presence, I celebrate him. I thank him. I carry him.

And I remember his words.
I remember his eyes.
I remember the man who never let me walk alone.

Forever your girl,
Naz

🎵 You'll Never Walk Alone - Gerry & The Pacemakers