The young couple, who hosted the gathering had two younger children, a boy and a girl, playing in the yard with their Beagle dog.
Also there was a horticulturist friend and his wife.
We talked of the desperate need for rain, the recent onslaught of those tiny but ferocious West Texas mosquitoes that invaded the environs following last week’s meager inch of rain and the recent mayoral election runoff.
The oldest youngster, a boy of maybe ten-years old, ceased his playing and wandered into our midst.
“Momma…can I have a Coke?” he asked.
“No, it’s too late, Jonathan…but you can have some ice water.”
He looked down, disappointed.
He scraped his little-footed boot across a yellow flower with green leaves growing between the cracks of the old brick patio.
A thought occurred to me…
“Jonathan?” I asked.
He looked up at me. “Yes, sir?”
“What’s a weed?”
My horticulturist friend shot me a side-long glance, and smiled slightly.
Jonathan looked at me, obviously not prepared for such a question out-of-the blue.
My question put Jonathan on the spot as all adults awaited his response.
Jonathan’s furrowed brow lightened and he said, “A weed is like that little plant I stomped on there!” he pointed at the mangled little yellow flower between the bricks.
“It’s not supposed to be there,” he added.
I looked at my horticulturist friend, smiled and asked, “How would you define a weed, my friend?”
He leaned forward in his lawn chair, holding his Carona in both hands and looked at me and then at Jonathan.
“A weed is a plant growing where it is not wanted,” and winked at Jonathan.
“See! I told ya!” Jonathan erupted, and who then spun around to rejoin his sister and the Beagle in the yard.
As my friend sat back into his chair, I said,
“Kinda like Washington D.C.”