Mom sends me an email: Got a new doctor his name is Wendell Weed. Great name to put in a poem, yes? I'm sitting at my desk at work, having just leafed through a course notebook to double check an assignment, one of my poems on the back ("Ten Days in Arkansas") because, in my care for the planet's limited resources, I always run paper through my printer twice.
I write her back. Actually, mom, I've already written a poem with Wendell Weed in it. I found his name on a gravestone in that cemetery on Mission. I've got the poem right here. Maybe you should ask Dr. Weed if he's a descendent?
I get home from work to this email from my mom: So here's how it went with Dr. Weed: Dr. Wendell Weed, your name is one that should be in a poem. He says, I've often wished that someone would put me in a poem; actually my middle name also begins with a W--WEELER. Me, WOW! so it's all those w's! I must tell my daughter in Seattle.
And she did tell me. He is Wendell Weed the 3rd, and he lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas. The Wendell Weed on the gravestone is his father.