I'll Be Dead in Two Weeks

Old Wela, around 1985

Why did I name this “I’ll Be Dead in Two Weeks?”

Everyone’s got a story.  Here’s mine:

I’m half-Spanish on my mother’s side.  My great-grandparents emigrated from Spain in the 1920s, and settled in an area outside of Pittsburgh.

When we were babies, my brother and I couldn’t say, “abuela,” which is Spanish for “grandmother.”  Instead, we said, “Wela.”  So, while Spanish-speakers had “Abuela & Abuelo,” we had “Wela & Welo.”  And since we were fortunate enough to have great-grandparents around as well, we also had “Old Wela & Old Welo.”  I’m not sure how my great-grandparents felt about that, but they didn’t speak English anyway, so it didn’t seem to be an issue.

My great-grandmother, Old Wela, got to be a tad of a drama queen in her later years.  When she felt slighted, which was pretty much all the time, she would lament that she had been wronged in some way, and then, in resignation, tell us, “I’ll be dead in two weeks.”  Keep in mind that being “slighted” entailed anything from forgetting to put the milk on the table for her coffee to not giving her an official, mailed invitation to her own birthday party being held in her own house.  She’d try to add miles to the guilt trip with the “I’ll be dead in two weeks” bit.   She said it every day for almost 22 years.

Now, let me be clear.  This was not a weak, wimpy, frail woman.  My great-grandmother stood about 5’9″, with a posture so ram-rod straight that she had earned the nickname, “torero,” meaning bullfighter or matador.  We were terrified to cross her, and rightly so.

To her, kids were to be silent, clean, and obedient.  When I was 5, I was playing in her yard and got some mud on my jeans.  Old Wela took one look at me and stripped me naked so fast you’d have thought my clothes were held together with Velcro.  She muttered angrily in Spanish, then turned the hose on me in the front yard.  It was like a scene right out of Midnight Express.

My aunt tells stories about the days when Old Wela was more limber and athletic.  She had old, hard-bottomed slippers that I’m pretty sure have been illegal since 1968.  If you stepped out of line, you got whacked before you even realized you did anything wrong.  As I understand it, she could chuck that thing and take your ear off at 40 paces…like hitting a dingo in the outback with a boomerang.

This didn’t only apply to children.  Every animal on earth was subject to her stern discipline.

Old Wela (second from right) with her brothers and sisters, around 1955

For example, remember the days when people had “company?”  There would be a sweet roll in the refrigerator, but you couldn’t touch it because it was for “company.”  Remember?

Well, one day, my great-grandmother was awaiting company.  A pregnant cat, in a moment of feline insanity, determined that the best place to have her litter of kittens was on the front porch of my great-grandmother’s house.  Big mistake.  Huge.  Most people would have stopped what they were doing to watch.  Maybe even called a vet.  My great-grandmother?  Her solution was to line up as if she were on the 35-yard line, and boot that cat through the trees of the front yard like it was a game-winning field goal.  Old Wela: 3, Pregnant cat: 0.

Even Chiquita, her fat, little mutt of a dog, knew the rules.  Upon entering the house, she made a sharp right turn down to the basement.  That dog didn’t look to the left or the right.  I always interpreted that as proof that dogs are smarter than cats.

But after my great-grandfather died in 1972, Old Wela slowed down a bit.  Shortly thereafter, she began the daily proclamations.  Sometimes she’d spice it up a little bit and add, “…like the leaves on the trees…” complete with swaying hand motions.  It was all very dramatic.  But more often than not, she’d yell at you in Spanish, and then say, in her best English, “I’ll be dead in two weeks.”

So, Old Wela, wherever you are, this site is named in your memory.  Hopefully it’ll bring a chuckle to those who read it.

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