This is my very first story on this page, and I’m kicking it off with a tribute to the man who raised me, shaped me, and made me laugh harder than anyone else ever has — my grandfather, Frank Weems. I called him “Daddy” because that’s exactly who he was to me: the father I never had.
There’s something special about grandparents — like they hold the secrets of the world in their laugh lines and church hats. And my grandfather? Oh, he was a whole vibe.
Frank Alexander Weems was fun-loving, sharp, loud in the best way, and lived for family, music, dancing, and a good story. And Lord, did he have stories. My favorite was the one he called Franks and Beans. That was his nickname for his love story with my grandmother, Carrie.
Now, let me tell you — this wasn’t no fairytale. It was Southern, gritty, hilarious, and beautiful. My grandmother Carrie, God rest her soul, was a tomboy to her core. Folks called her “Tank” — not because she was big, but because she’d fight anybody, and usually win. Boys, girls, grown men, it didn’t matter. She’d knuckle up just for fun. Or a few dollars. Or if you looked at her sideways.
So one day in the hot streets of Savannah, Georgia, she’s out there, knuckling boys out one by one like it was a sport. My grandfather, then just a wiry teenager, steps up — but instead of raising his fists, he raised a question:
“You wanna go to the movies with me?”
That line right there saved his life. Tank paused — blinked — then said, “Lemme ask my Mama.”
And just like that, my grandfather knew he had a shot. He didn’t get knocked out that day. He got a maybe. And in his teenage heart, that was enough.
He picked her up for the movies. Back then, a ticket cost about a quarter. She asked for peanuts — just a few cents. He bought them proudly, probably thinking, Tonight’s the night I get my first kiss.
But oh no. Carrie had other plans.
They sat in the dark theater — him, heart pounding; her, laser-focused on the screen. Every time he leaned in for a kiss, she popped another damn peanut in her mouth. Every. Single. Time.
He said he gave up after the fifth one. Figured he’d try again on the walk home.
He walked her to her stoop, feeling hopeful, love-drunk, and full of nerves. Told her he had a great time, asked if he could see her again. She said, “Lemme ask my Mama,” then flashed that mischievous smile. He leaned in one last time...
Crunch.Another peanut.
“Goodnight,” she said, and disappeared inside.
He didn’t get that kiss. But he got something better — a lifetime with her.
Carrie had her first child at 13. Frank was 15. Yep. You heard that right. Thirteen and fifteen. They packed up and left Georgia, tired of segregation and Southern heat, and headed north to Philadelphia. They had three kids there, built a life, and then eventually moved to Harlem, New York.
My grandfather fought in WWII. After the war, he became a professional tailor. And not just any tailor — one of his clients was Malcolm X. Yeah. That Malcolm.
He converted to Islam for a time, then later became a Christian. He and my grandmother eventually moved to the Bronx. They rented the top floor of a house until the landlord had the audacity to say I wasn’t on the lease. My grandparents didn’t argue — they packed up and moved to Co-op City. Their first owned home. And guess who moved in with them? Yup. Me.
My grandfather opened his own barbershop on 229th Street and White Plains Road — “Frank’s Barbershop.” My grandmother worked at the Nurses’ Residence at Jacobi Hospital until retirement. They worked hard, loved harder, and partied like nobody’s business.
And yes — the Franks and Beans story goes deeper. My grandfather swore all my grandmother knew how to make was beans. Bean soup. Bean pancakes. Bean pies. “Everything bean,” he’d say. “I was in the bathroom for days.”
She’d roll her eyes and snap back, “Child, don’t believe him. Your Daddy couldn’t even fry an egg.”
It didn’t matter who was right. Their bickering was love in its truest form.
Today is my grandfather’s heavenly birthday. He’s been gone for 27 years. I celebrate him every single day. He gave me what so many kids never get — time. And I soaked it up.
There’s not a man alive who compares to him. Not one. Frank Weems was the blueprint. The face of love. The master of stories. The protector of my teenage years.
And even though he’s no longer here, his stories — and that laugh that shook the walls — live on in me.
Happy Heavenly Birthday, Daddy.
You were one of a kind.
And you still mean the world to me.
