Carolyn (NMN) Kinzbach*

When my brother came howling into this world, my parents held him up high before the pride and announced, "This is our FIRSTBORN!  A SON!  We shall name him CHARLES...KIRK...KINZBACH!"  Roars of approval echoed across the savannah as the word spread.  "The FIRSTBORN!  A SON!  CHARLES...KIRK...KINZBACH!"  The joy of the parents lifted up into the cool April breeze and circled high above their glorious male offspring.

CHARLES KIRK KINZBACH

His very name paid homage to his father.

WILLIAM CHARLES KINZBACH

Three years pass and lo, my mother discovered that she was again with child.  "Ho hum," said she, "Another big belly.  Another stiff round of anesthesia when the time comes."  And so it was that on a bright March day in the early afternoon a baby girl was born to my mother who was punch-drunk in her "twilight sleep."  Alas, this she-child came forth from my mother's womb with skin as yellow as Miss Elphaba's was green.  A benevolent donor was called in, and the sallow Rh babe was transfused with his blood from the top of her little downy head to the tip of her tiny toes. 

Somehow in all of the hubbub brought on by the talk of jaundice and the tangle of needles and tubes, no name was immediately bestowed upon this child.  It wasn't until the day after her traumatic birth that the question was raised.  "What name shall be given this golden child?"  "Hmmm," said my mother.  "Uhhhhh," my father.  Together they pondered for a few minutes before announcing the name of their girl-child.

"She shall be called Carolyn!" they declared choosing a name out of thin air that had absolutely no familial link whatsoever.

"Is it C-A-R-O-L-Y-N?  Not C-A-R-O-L-I-N-E?" asked the nurse making sure that they weren't forgetting the more feminine and slightly southern form of the name.

"Nope.  C-A-R-O-L-Y-N."  They stated.

"What about her middle name?" the nurse continued.

"That's all.  Just Carolyn.  Carolyn Kinzbach.  That will do nicely," they assured her.

"Just Carolyn Kinzbach," she parroted so that they could hear how the name sounded coming out of the mouth of a stranger.

So it came to be that I was given no middle name when I was born.  As I grew from babe to child to adolescent to adult, I had to bear the indignity of being middle-nameless.

"What is your middle name?" an inquisitive mind would want to know.

"I don't have one," I would say with a sigh longing to be able to answer with a simple "Kay" or "Suzanne" or "Jo."

"Ahhh, come on!  It can't be that bad!  Tell me what it is!" the inquisitive mind would insist.

"Nope.  I'm not kidding.  My parents did not give me a middle name when I was born," I would explain.

"So what are your initials...just CK?" the incredulous mind would query.

"Yes.  Just CK," I would quietly answer waiting for the moment to pass.  The subject to change.  Sigh.  Most of the time a game would commence.  The guessing of the awful, unrepeatable middle name my parents must have saddled me with.  "Hortense?!  Ethel?!  Edna?! (my maternal grandmother's FIRST name) Mildred?!  Ursula?!"

My high school diploma looked rather incomplete with a simple "Carolyn Kinzbach" centered lonely on the page.  Then, came Baylor.  I remember standing in the registrar's office my freshman year.  I don't know why I was there, but I do remember what happened.

"Name?" asked counter lady.

"Carolyn Kinzbach," I said getting ready for it.

"Full name?" she said changing the question in case I just didn't get it.

"Carolyn Kinzbach" I stated enunciating a bit more clearly.

"What is your middle name?" she said with a hint of frustration.

"I don't have one," I replied matching her level of frustration.

"So, it's just Carolyn Kinzbach?  That's all?" she pushed.

"Yep.  That's it and that's all," I said staring into her eyes in search of some sort of glimmer of understanding.

"OK.  So it's C-A-R-O-L-Y-N-(N-M-N)-K-I-N-S-B-A-C-K," she continued.

"That's K-I-N-Z-B-A-C-H.  It's German.  What the heck is N-M-N?" I asked squinting my eyes a wee bit.

"N-M-N?  That's the abbreviation for No Middle Name."

It was then and there that I began my quest in search of a middle name.  

To be continued...

*This story, while basically true, has been painted by the brush of a histrionic middle child.

In Which She Gets a Middle Name

Let's see...where was I?  Oh, yes!  I had begun my quest to find a middle name.  Well, not just find it...to have it ceremoniously bestowed upon me legally.  I began to pester my mother who thought that the idea was somewhat ridiculous.  

"Mom, will you pleeeeeeeeeease help me get a middle name?!

"How on earth would we possibly do that?!"

Then, I went for the maternal jugular:  "I don't know but...that's ALL I want for my 20th birthday!!!  I don't want ANYTHING else!!!  Nothing at all!!  Not one shoe!  Not one polyester pant suit!  Just a middle name!!!"

That did the trick as I figured it would.  Call in Uncle Billy.  He knew some legal stuff because he was a CPS caseworker.

"Well, you'll have to get a lawyer to petition the court for a name change.  Then, you'll have to go before a judge to make it legal."

Huh?! The process sounded daunting and expensive to say the least.  I was a tad discouraged but extremely determined.  I would have a middle name if I had to pay an attorney in installments of $5.00 a month for the rest of my life!  (We were not rich people.)

Slowly, with Uncle Bill's help, the plan began to unfold.  He talked to one of his judge buddies (juddy?) who was happy to help me out.  All I needed was an attorney to submit some sort of paperwork.  Hmmmm.  What to do?  What to do?

Aha!  Travis Kitchens!  He was my brother's high school friend.  And...he had just graduated from Baylor LAW school, ie, he worked cheap.  He was more than happy to help me because he really needed the 50 bucks that he charged us.

The next step was to choose a middle name.  That turned out to be the hard part.  I polled my friends and was given suggestions of big names like Suzanne, Michelle, and Nicole.  (I had just begun dating Alan, and Nicole was his suggestion.  I almost went with it because I really liked Mr. Alan Lackey.)  Suggestions of short names like Ann, Leigh, and Lynn were put forth.  Really?  Carolyn Lynn?  

There was the dream of someday having a lovely middle name.  It was fun to dream.  But, this was really going to happen!  It was like having a magic lamp but just one wish.  I had to get this right.    I began to stress out.  I filled sheets of paper with possibilities.  

Carolyn Michelle Kinzbach
(I can't really explain it, but I just wasn't a "Michelle.")

CMK

Carolyn Nicole Kinzbach Lackey 

(just in case)

CNL

Carolyn Adelle Kinzbach

CAK

("Cack?" Uh, that's a big NO.)

Carolyn Suzanne Kinzbach 

CSK
(a frontrunner because S looks great in a monogram)

I happened to be taking a great English class that semester.  I don't remember which one exactly, but we talked about Queen Elizabeth for a while.  So I tried it.

Carolyn Elizabeth Kinzbach

CEK 

("Keck" wasn't awesome, but it sure beat "Cack.")

Hmm.  Sounded good.  Regal, in fact.  It had lots of letters...I mean...as long as we were paying for it, I wanted to get Mom's money's worth.

And so it was that on March 3, 1977, I stood before the Honorable Judge Bill Logue in his chambers to legally become Carolyn Elizabeth Kinzbach.  I had to raise my right hand and swear that I wasn't trying to evade creditors or the law.  Mom snapped pictures as I declared that I didn't owe any money and hadn't broken any laws.  Travis Kitchens stood by Judge Logue's side looking all official in his Lawyer Man 3-piece suit.  Also in attendance:  my mother, my sister, Uncle Billy, and one Alan Loyd Lackey.

"I hereby declare that you are now and forevermore
Carolyn Elizabeth." 

Sure enough, in 1979 I added "Lackey" to my name.

I am now and forevermore

Carolyn Elizabeth Kinzbach Lackey 

CEL

("Cell."  I know, I know, but what can you do?)

My 20th Birthday gift from Alan

And that, my dearies, is why to this very day, I sign all of my correspondence with cel.

Just tryin' to get Mom's $50's worth.

P.S. My sister wasn't give a middle name either.  Kathy (NMN) Kinzbach.  It didn't bother her.  Not one little bit. - cel

Baylor Homecoming 2010

As I sit here thinking back over the past two days, I can't believe that I belabored my fashion woes while wandering aimlessly through TJ Maxx and Steinmart for several hours last week.  Thankfully, I never made it to my old standby, Chico's.  Generally, when I need a "look" in a pinch, Chico's is my "money solvable" option.  My husband, Alan (the banker), taught me that nifty little phrase, "money solvable."  I think that the term is particularly apropos when it comes to last-minute-full-price-desperation shopping at Chico's.  Thankfully, last week I didn't take the time to make a pilgrimage to the mecca of cool, hip, and stretchy.

As it turns out, I've come to the stage in life in which I value the friendly faces and familiar laughter of my college friends more than their outer appearances.  I can remember very little about what any of them were wearing.  I am, however, still chuckling over the funny memories we shared.  We reverted back to the familiar.  "Donna Mo."  "Boomer."  "Garner." 

"Remember when 'Miss Walmsley' (a "Black Member" of our sorority...the term has nothing to do with the color of her skin and everything to do with how much she intimidated us) made us hold a lit match while we recited the Greek alphabet?!"  [In 1977, Black Members made us stronger, better pledges by making us feel like inadequate idiots.  In 2010, their methods would be considered hazing.]

"Guess what!  I actually saw Linda H. a couple of years ago in Austin!"

"Did you run and hide?"

"No, she was actually friendly!"

"She didn't ask you to name all of the active members from Plano who were majoring in either Education and Accounting?!"

"Nope!  She treated me like a human being!"

We lamented the fact that in today's world wearing a shirt that says XO "Pledge" is considered hazing.  We made cookies for members' boyfriends without so much as breaking a sweat.    We considered it an honor to "NEVER chew gum or walk on grass" until we were initiated into the Sisterhood.  Running across the street to greet a member by name was a rite of passage.  Carrying a pledge book 24-7 became second nature to us.  Those are the memories we hold so close.  The common suffering of neophyte wanna-be's.  They have bound us tight with a glue that keeps us coming back to each other year after year.

The conversation meandered through the forests of Ugly Pledge Dresses (Pledge Trainers were generally either Accounting or Biology majors - never Fashion Design.), Failed Finance Tests, and How Hard It Is to Actually Get Into a Sorority These Days.  I told about how I got my rush picture made in the basement of Sid Richardson where my on-campus job involved making ID pictures with a Polaroid camera.  I stood in front of the yellow backdrop and smiled while a student co-worker counted out 1...2...3 before snapping the shot.  I didn't even have a XO "Rec" until Pref Day.  If my dentist's wife hadn't been a XO alum, I just don't know what!  

There was the obligatory critiquing of the Pigskin acts.  "Their vocals were a bit off to say the least!"  "Loved, loved, loved their backdrop!"  "WE were the first to use the song 'Brand New Day' 30 years ago.  These young kids have no idea!  It is not a 'middle song!'  They shouldn't be allowed to use it unless they can prove that they fully understand its power as the Big Bang ending song!"  "And, can you believe that they didn't do any a cappella 3-part harmony?!"  And, so on.  And, so on.  Having participated in both Sing and Pigskin 3 decades ago, we felt totally qualified to carefully analyze each and every act detail by detail.  There was a moment of silence for the great acts of the days of yore.  The KOT chimney sweeps.  XO's Up the Ladder to the Roof.  Nacho Man.

We laughed at the fact that it took the collective minds of at least 3 of us to come up with the names of the people who "looked sort of familiar."  "Ohhh, wait a minute!  I know this one!  She was on the back row with me during Sing!"  "Is it 'Annie-something'?!"  "Hmm.  Annie...Annie?  Or, was it Becky?"  Our mental hard drives boot ever so slowly these days.

Yes, I'm still smiling this morning.  In hindsight, all I know is this.  Next year when I go to Homecoming 2011, I am going to wear something green and gold.  Our seats were smack dab in the middle of the Kansas State section.  In a sea of purple and white, we Lackeys seemed to be nondescript spectators of a random sporting event. Instead of wandering around Steinmart next October in search of "flattering and chic," I'm going to be surfing the net looking for some in-yo-face green and gold plaid pants with a matching t-shirt and fun SEE-ME-FOR-I-AM-BAYLOR hat.  None of my friends at the XO Breakfast will care what I wear.  We'll be laughing so hard that my brown knit sock-monkey-style-Baylor-Bear hat won't matter to them at all. 

Still crazy...after all these years.

The Graduation Inquisition

Five and a half hours in a Suburban one way.  Three hundred and thirty minutes in an enclosed, intimate space.  Three hundred of those minutes were spent under fire - a ping pong match of questions.  At an average of 4 questions per minute, that comes to roughly 1400 questions.

What is the population of Post?  I don't know.  Have you ever met the mayor?  No.  How many gallons does your gas tank hold?  Can't remember.  Have you ever been to Indonesia?  No.  What is the population of Sweetwater?  I don't know.  How many churches do they have?  Beats me.  Have you visited any of those churches?  We went to First Baptist when we lived here 30-some-odd years ago. Is every denomination represented in Sweetwater?  I'm not sure.  Have you ever been on a German river cruise on the Rhine River?  No.  Are those windmills over there?  Yes.  Do they generate electricity?  Yes.  Do you use the electricity they generate?  No.  Why is that?  [unintelligible response]  Are there windmills in Lubbock?  A few.  Why aren't there as many as they have here?  I don't know.  What is the population of Abilene?  I don't know.  Do you know anyone who lives there?  No.  [default answer]  How many churches do they have?  I don't know.  Is every denomination represented?  I'm not sure.  Have you ever eaten at Denny's?  Yes.  What did you have to eat there?  Pancakes.  Have you ever met the mayor of Abilene?  No.  Do you know his name?  No.  Which state senator represents the citizens of Abilene in Austin, Texas?  Don't know.  Have you ever met the mayor of Lubbock?  No.

Bryce, our middle child, invited Leonard (The Meems best friend at Raider Ranch) to Baylor graduation way back in the fall.  Leonard, who hails from Baltimore, was thrilled to have the opportunity to explore his newly adopted state.  He also LOVES information - brochures, historical markers, mileage signs, menus.  Combine the two factors, and there you have it. 1400 questions.

Last Thursday morning, we loaded up 2 vehicles and headed east to see Bryce graduate from Baylor.  Alan drove the Suburban which was filled with graduation decor, surprises,  moving boxes, Nana and Leonard.  I drove the Altima with the hanging clothes, luggage and Mimi.  I sort of orchestrated the vehicle arrangements with my ears in mind.  "Alan, will be your tour guide, Leonard!  He knows more about what all you're going to see than I do!"  Heh.  Heh.  Heh.

When our caravan stopped for lunch at the Cracker Barrel in Abilene, I asked Alan how his journey was going.  "Questions.  Questions.  Questions," he replied dully.  He was, however, still in good spirits.  He has been gifted with an ocean of patience when it comes dealing with the elderly and the curious.

By the time we reached Waco, a tiny grimace was forming on Alan's face.  "Good drive?" asked I.  "I don't know how someone could EVER ask that many questions," said he gritting his teeth.  "I finally just answered 'don't know' to every question so that I wouldn't have to think," he added.  I chuckled.

The weekend was glorious!  College graduation is way more fun than high school graduation!  There were cheers for each grad - parents who were celebrating "pay day" like us.  Oh, there was one hitch in the festivities.  Nana fell at the hotel and cracked her pelvis.  We were rescued by Alan's sister who drove down from Dallas to be with Nana in the hospital.  Life gets so exciting sometimes!

What?  Oh, you're wondering how my drive to Waco went?  It was awesome!  I downloaded Carol Burnett's book, This Time Together:  Laughter and Reflection.  The Meems and I laughed and reflected for 5.5 hours.  The time simply flew by!

Leonard did ask me a few questions in the car as we drove from lunch at the Elite Cafe to graduation at the Ferrell Center.  "Are you and Alan going to get to march in the procession with Bryce?"  "Uh, no."  "Is that right?  Will you put his 'colors' on him when they call out his name?"  Uh, no.   "Hmm.  That's the way they did it when I graduated.  The parents got to march in with their graduate.  They got to put the colors on 'em when their name was called."  "I don't think that they do that anymore."  [OK.  I'll be honest.  I was quite sure that hasn't happened at Baylor since before long before I graduated from there in 1979.]  "Will we go to the dinner honoring the graduates and their families this evening?"  "I don't think that there's any place in Waco that could serve that many people.  Alan made reservations for us at a restaurant."  "So, that means we're not going to the dinner honoring the graduates and there families?"  I almost bit a hole in my tongue.

We now have a 4th generation Baylor alum in our family!  The trip was totally worth the questions, the cracked pelvis, the wheelchair [for Meems, the slow walker]!

Congratulations, Bryce!!  You've been there!  You've done that!  We are so proud!!

We love you, Leonard!  We were so proud that you were able to join us for this momentous occasion!  Did you have fun?  What did you eat at the Elite?  How was your hotel room?  Did you enjoy the hotel breakfast?  Did you have eggs?  Toast?  Waffles?  Was the weather good?  Did you get to shake Judge Starr's hand?  Did they ask for all of Bryce Lackey's loved ones to stand and be recognized?  Have you been to Alabama with a banjo on your knee?

2010 Lackey Christmas Letter

Merry Christmas from the High Plains of Texas!

Here is an update on the Lackeys in the form of a detailed description of our home "in this moment" on December 22, 2010, at 3:08PM.  Bryce and Reed are home.  Jonathan just left to go "hang out" with friends.  Overall, it's pretty quiet and peaceful.  I'm thinking that Bryce and Reed must be wearing headphones.

Living Room:

Both the doors on the top and bottom of our entertainment center are flung wide open.  The TV is still warm from being on for most of the day.  There are 2 empty string cheese wrappers peeking up from underneath a throw pillow on a cozy chair.  An empty Dr. Pepper can is sitting on the table next to the chair.  All of the throw pillows which were carefully re-fluffed and replaced last night have been un-fluffed and "rearranged."  The remote control is on the floor next to the couch.  From the look of the throw blanket on the couch and the configuration of the pillows, someone got real cozy while zoning out in front of the TV this morning.  Actually, the room is pretty orderly.  There are no shoes or socks scattered about.  The Christmas tree stands tall in the corner with its tiny white lights and 200+ Santa ornaments winking at me.  Underneath its boughs are piles of wrapped gifts which have been carefully arranged in such a way that shows off the  pretty wrapping paper and bows.  About 2 feet in front of this lovely array of gifts are the gifts that the boys "wrapped" yesterday by plopping their purchases into recycled gift sacks and topped with shocks of tissue.  There are small items swimming in the depths of large sacks and large items poking their heads out of medium sized sacks.  This system of wrapping works for me because I tend to be a "peeker."

Jonathan's, Bryce's and Reed's Rooms:

Other than the furnishings and bedding, these three rooms look basically the same.  There are piles of dirty clothes on the floor topped off with wet bath towels.  Empty Dr. Pepper cans have been left alone to rust like little Tinmen in the forrest.  I stop and listen in case they are crying out, "Please...recycle me!" with their tiny, tinny voices.  Laptops and headphones have sprawled across their beds resting up for the next round of World of Warcraft adventures.  Loose change confettis their floors near discarded dirty jeans.  In Jonathan's room his cat, Pepe, is curled up under the bed sleeping off the antics of his late night ramblings.  He should be very tired after Saturday's adventure of airport nightmares from Chicago Midway to Kansas City to Lubbock.  There are no traces of higher education to be found amidst the chaos.  The textbooks which served them so valiantly during the Fall semester were sold at their college bookstores minutes after their respective finals were taken.  "Begone, Brit Lit!  I will never spend another Saturday night in the library with thee!"  "Begone, Mythology!  May the gods be with you!  Gone are the bedside books which once patiently waited for their late night readers.  Pleasure reading is a thing of the past.  Thick textbooks have created vacuums in the boys' heads where the Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter once held court.   

Kitchen:

Oh, the kitchen.  I was out most of the day for my morning cut-'n'-color appointment and, then,  lunch with my CASA kids.  While I was gone, Alan must have stopped by for lunch.  There are 2 mostly empty containers of Activia yogurt sitting next to the sink with telltale rims of yogurty goodness lining their tops.  They have not been thrown in the trash.  Neither have they been rinsed out and recycled.  Nope.  Alan left them displayed there on the kitchen counter for no apparent reason amidst the dirty glasses - some with bits of ice melting in what looks like watered down Dr. Pepper - that are strewn across that same counter.  A sauce pan 1/2 full of coagulated homemade queso dip is sitting cock-eyed on a burner.  According to the indicator glowing above the  burner's knob which is now in the "Off" position, the perpetrator should still be in the area.  There must be a trail of Dorito crumbs around here somewhere.  That trail would lead me straight to the perp's lair.  Next to the cooktop are two opened cans of Rotel tomatoes that are waving at me with their ruffled lids which are bent up and twisted this way and that.  On the table are 6 bottles of wine which Alan has left for someone to wrap up for him to give as gifts to some bank customers.  I suppose that when the little fairy comes to clean up his Activia mess, she will also bedazzle the bottles with Yuletide gaiety.  A large bin of gift boxes and gift sacks sits at the ready in the corner by the table.  Next to it stand brightly colored rolls of Christmas wrapping paper with scraggly cut edges waiting for the next call to arms when a gift is presented for adornment.  They, too, are waiting for Alan's magic fairy to come wrap the gifts he will then label "From - ALL  To - CEL."  No, they are not from everybody to me.  Alan's middle name is Loyd. 

The Master Bedroom:

Ahhh.  The sanctuary.  Lily and Dixie, our 2 black and white cats, are curled up on the bed napping the afternoon away.  Lily's ears twitch a bit when she hears me tiptoe into the room, but her eyes remain closed as she focuses on her dreams of dining on fresh trout plucked from a Rocky Mountain Stream while stretched out on a cozy bed fashioned from my favorite pink fuzzy robe.  On my bedside table next to a small stack of books are an economy sized container of Tums and a tube of Burt's Bees lip balm.  These items share the tabletop with a clear glass Tiffany heart paperweight - a Valentine's treasure from years ago - and clock on a stand that has never kept good time.  Alan's bedside table boasts some travel books and a little collection of his nighttime vitamins left there so that he can't forget to take them.  Out of habit, I glance towards the foot of our bed.  A bench has been placed there where Pepper slept every night for the past 13 years up until a long, dark August night last summer.  Gone are the clumps border collie hair.  Gone is our faithful protector.  Gone is the pup that sat shiva with me for months after my sister, Kathy, died.  Now, I've done it.  I've gone and picked my scab of family pet grief inviting tears to journey down my cheeks.  Move on, Carolyn.  Deep breath.  In through the nose and out through the mouth.  Oh, there is also a dresser and a couple of chairs...the usual  accoutrements that are placed in bedrooms to create a haven of sorts for people who need a "soft place to fall" at the end of each day.  This room is my favorite room in our home.  It has its own sort of gravitational pull that keeps me from flying out into deep space on days when I'm busy, "full-on" Carolyn.

The Dining Room:

Since Thanksgiving, the dining table has been set for Christmas Eve dinner with my Spode Christmas china, our wedding Waterford wine glasses and champagne flutes and Mom's vintage water goblets with clear stems and emerald green bowls.  Something old.  Something new.  Something passed down.  There are eight places set for our small family gathering.  Joining us this Christmas Eve will be Nana, Mimi, and Leonard.  Leonard is one of Mimi's dear friends from Raider Ranch whose daughter, a nurse, will be working that night.  After the candelight service at our church, we will gather around that lovely table and hold hands, heads bowed, while Leonard says grace.  He prays in the most elegant, spiritual and loving way.  Once the amens are said, we will feast on honeyed ham, a three-potato gratin, cranberry salad and other tasty seasonal morsels.  Then, we will push our chairs back swearing that we will never be able to eat again in our lifetimes and clear the table before gathering in the living room in front of the crackling fire for dessert - sugar cookies and thick, rich sipping chocolate topped with toasted marshmallows.

I'm off to the kitchen to clear off the counters so that I can whip up my boys' favorite, Homemade White Cheddar Mac and Cheese.  They like it served in huge steaming piles in soup bowls alongside crusty, hot, buttery rolls.  I must quintuple the recipe.  This is a week filled with comfort foods, cookies, candy and my four men.  Heaven on earth.

Merry Christmas from the Lackeys!

For unto us a Child is born! Unto us a Son is given!  

And the government shall be upon His shoulder!

And his name shall be called - Wonderful, Counsellor, 

the Mighty God, 

the Everlasting Father, 

the Prince of Peace.

The Prince of Peace
Isaiah 9:6

Elevator Girl

I am TERRIFIED of HEIGHTS.  When I'm up on top of anything taller than a 6 foot ladder, I feel a vaporous cloud of Highness surrounding me like an evil entity plotting to suck me off of the high place and hurl me to the concrete or grass or plush carpet below. BE-YA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!  It's up there.  Waiting.  For me.  Highnesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss. 

My men, on the other hand, celebrate the Highness of whatever lies before them be it a mountain top, a monument or a skyscraper.  My Bryce loves to stand at the edge of Highness in awe of its power and glory.  My beloved men see a breathtaking view.  I see certain and imminent death involving a sustained echoing scream.  If they've heard it once, they have heard it 173 times, "BOYS!  Get back from the edge!  YOU'RE MAKING ME NERVOUS!"  If they have mimicked my warning once, they have mimicked it 3042 times in nasal falsetto voices, "Get back from the edge, Bryce!  YOU'RE MAKING ME NERVOUS!"  Hardy-har-har!

I drug my feet into the lobby of the building that day in July.  I had thoroughly voiced my fears only to be met with exasperated retorts of "Mo-om!  You're NOT going to fall off of the thing!" and "I'm pretty sure there's a railing around the observation deck.  Gee-aww!"  Railing shmailing.  Goaded by my men to participate in the  planned activity for that day of our vacation, I stepped one foot and then the other into that elevator.  I could hear my heartbeat pounding my ears.  thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka

Unlike most elevators, this one had an elevator operator - Elevator Girl.  This elevator was far too fine and special to entrust up and down button pushing to your average Joe-off-the-street.  It required a fine and special vest and a name badge.  I don't remember Elevator Girl's face.  I just remember that she was petite with jet black hair and perhaps some piercings - rather course.  She was in her late teens or early 20's.  If I had to guess, I'd say that her name was Khloe-with-a-K.   

As we began our rapid climb, I studied her trying to figure out what brought Khloe-with-a-K to this place.  What force of nature pushed her into this particular building to fill out an Elevator Girl application knowing full well that she was asking for minimum wage shifts of UP-down-UP-down-UP-down-UP-down-UP-down-UP-down-UP-down-UP-down-UP.  down.  Did she quietly sing a chorus?  "I really need this job!  Please, God, I NEED this job!  I REAL-LY NEEED THIIIIS JOB!"

Elevator Girl was actually a wee bit friendlier than she looked.  She began to tell us facts about the speed of the elevator in terms of feet per second. Ears popped. There were giddy "Dangs!" and "Wows!" and chuckles.  It's not like she was cracking jokes or anything.  Something she said just struck me funny. In the midst of my swelling angst, she made me smile.  

I was happy to see that the elevator doors opened into a gift shop area on the 107th floor.  Logic told me that I would not be stepping directly out onto some precipice like a gargoyle.  Fear begged to differ.  Gift Shop Counter Lady was alive and well.  She wasn't holding on to counter for dear life.  She was counting out change as calmly as a Counter Girl on the first floor of a department store.

"Mo-om, you HAVE to come out here!  This is going to be sooo cool!" the goading continued.  "Mo-om, you can hold my hand.  You're NOT going to fall off of this building."  I wanted to be That Mo-om.  The adventurous Boy Mo-om.  I decided to pretend.  The doors opened.  The wind caught my breath.  I stepped out.

Clinging to the wall of the observation deck like a wet stray cat, I felt nauseous just watching my men stand with their noses poking just past the so-called protective barrier.  Seriously, Protective Barrier?  Do you really think that little you can ward off Highness?  "Don't get so close to the edge!  YOU'RE MAKING ME NERVOUS!"  Eye rolls.  My little parrots squawked, "YOU'RE MAKING ME NERVOUS!  YOU'RE MAKING ME NERVOUS!  BERAWK!"  

Alan gouged the knife of fear in a bit deeper and twisted it grinning.  "They say that these buildings sway a couple of inches either way to keep the wind from blowing 'em over.  Can you feel the swaying?!"  Man laughter.  Oh, I could feel it swaying.  It swayed like the tip of a fly fish rod taunting a salmon in a mountain stream.  Highness.  Swaying.  Back to the gift shop.  Longing for my new best friend, Elevator Girl.

In case you're wondering, I lived another to see another day.  Highness did not win out on July 20, 2001.  Elevator Girl safely delivered me back to solid ground.  I wanted to kneel down and kiss the hot summer pavement and sing praises to God.  I'm alive!  I'm alive!  I must be alive, because I am standing here on solid ground!

_______________________________

Seven and a half weeks later - summer over - boys at school - peaceful house - at 9:00AM, I was in my kitchen loading the dishwasher with one hand while holding the phone to my ear with the other hand.  Right in the middle of a cozy morning chat with my neighbor, Marianne, it happened.  Today Show's Matt and Katie took us there.  Marianne and I hurriedly ended our chatter.  I stood frozen in front of my sink trying to process what I was seeing.


Then, I thought of her.  Elevator Girl.  Khloe-with-a-K.  Dear, precious, young, name-tagged, Elevator Girl of the Special Vest.  Please, God in Heaven.  Keep her safe.

I've kept these tucked away for 10 years.  My great grandchildren will unearth them from my rubble.

My Funny Valentine

The other day:

"I made you a bookmark."

I actually felt a little tinge of "tickled pink" when she told me about the bookmark.  

"It's on my shelf.  It's for you."

When I picked up my gift, I accidentally smudged the somewhat organized glob of glitter glue she added to the bottom of the design.

"Mom, I need to leave it here to dry overnight!  I'll get it tomorrow when I come see you!"

One minute and 42 seconds later.

"Don't forget to take home your bookmark."

Re-explained the wet glitter glue issue.

"OK."

Two minutes and 17.5 seconds later.

"Don't forget to take home your bookmark."

"OK."

Today:

"I want you to have the Valentine that's on my door."

She "made" it the day she made the bookmark.  A group of middle school students came and did crafts with the residents.  She had a LOT of help making it.

"Mom, are you sure you want me to have it?!  It's got your name on it!"

"Yes.  It's YOUR Valentine from me."

"That's SO SWEET!  Thank you, Mom!"

"I want YOU to have a Valentine."  

And so, I do.  The bookmark made me smile.  The door sign with her name on it brought huge wet tears to my eyes.  I will treasure it always.

A lovely lady came to play songs for them on the piano prior to their Valentine's party this afternoon.  One of the caregivers referred to her as a "piano-ist."  Worked for me.

While she was banging out oldie goldies on the out-of-tune piano, Mom leaned over to me and said loudly, "I can't believe that they didn't invite ALL of the parents to this.  This is really nice.  They must not have sent out invitations.  You knew about the party because you're here every day."

It's officially official.  I'm the parent now.

Happy Valentine's Day!

"Well."

"Well," Meems said softly.  Just "well."

I called from Florida where Alan and I were attending a wedding to relay the news that one of her BFFs from Waco passed away.

The conversation began with idle chat.

Me:  "Hey!  What have you been up to today?"

Meems:  "Nothing.  We don't have exercise class on Saturday."

Me:  "Did you have a good breakfast?"

Meems:  "Yes."

Me:  "What did you have?"

Meems:  "I don't remember."

Me:  "I have some sad news.  Rachel passed away last night."

Meems:  "Well."

Me:  "She was such a great friend."

Meems:  "Well.  [pause]  She'd been sick."

I have no idea why W.E. is posing behind Meem's
TV which was pushed up against that wall.  "Here,
let's move the TV out and you stand BEHIND IT!"

Meems has a multitude of long time friends.  She's a lover of all people.  People tend to return the favor.  Three of her BFFs in Waco were Lee & W.E. Nelson, and Rachel. (Rachel's the lady in the middle of the middle picture.)  Together they celebrated birthdays, New Years Eves, St. Patrick's Days, Fourth of Julys, and any other days that Meems could find a reason to celebrate.  

Lee passed away several years ago.  W.E. soon followed.  Meems moved to Raider Ranch in Lubbock, and Rachel moved to a place in Austin to be near her daughter.

Faithfully, Meems (with the help of her Lubbock BFF, Leonard) called to check on Rachel once a week.  I would get the reports.  "Rachel is doing fine.  She said to tell you 'hi!'"  "Rachel has been sick lately."  "Rachel has congenital [sic] heart failure but said she's OK."  "We haven't been able to reach Rachel on the telephone this week."

I had to compose myself before I made the call to Meems.  I didn't really know Rachel that well because she and Meems became friends after I was married and had moved away.  But, I knew all that Rachel had done for my mother over the years.  

When Rachel cooked a birthday dinner, she made it a birthday feast.  "She had baked chicken, rice, carrots, peas, green beans, a green salad, cole slaw, cake and 2 kinds of ice cream!" Meems would brag.  If Meems had a runny nose, Rachel brought a meal and felt her forehead for fever.  Like Meems, Rachel loved extravagantly. 

I'm not sure how much Meems actually remembers about Rachel.  Her mind is in the process of simplification.  Breakfast.  Check.  Excercise.  Check.  Lunch.  Check.  Afternoon snack.  Check.  Dinner.  Check.  Church on Sunday.  Check.  A dwindling loop of memories plays during our time together.  "I'm SO glad I got that long term health care policy!"  "The preacher that married your daddy and me said I was the prettiest bride he'd ever seen!"  "I used to date a guy who played in a dance band with Tex Beneke."  She added the detail that he was a Filipino sometime this year.  I highly doubt that detail.  It's more likely that his name was Phil Ipino.

Meems is pretty matter of fact about life and death.  It is what it is.  Some people die too young.  Some people live a long, good life.  Either way.  The only time she fears death is when she learns that I'm heading to some beach destination.  "Don't get in the water!!!  Sharks EAT people!"  Either way.  

As a woman of faith, she knows beyond a shadow of a shadow of doubt that there is a New Jerusalem.  When she sees Lee, W.E., and Rachel there, her face will light up and she'll do that funny sideways clap she does - the one where her fingers point in a bit towards her elbows as she awkwardly smacks her palms together.

Rev. 21:1-2  Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth.  The first heaven and the first earth had passed away.  There was no more sea.  I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem.  It was coming down out of heaven from God.  It was made ready like a bride is made ready for her husband.

Thank you, Rachel, Lee, and W.E. for loving my mother like a sister.  She says that she's going to live to be 100 so that she can see her picture on the Smuckers Jar during the Today Show, so it will be a minute til you hear her clapping.  But, boy, will she be clapping!

2002 Lackey Christmas Letter

This is my all-time favorite Lackey Christmas letter.  It tells the truth.  Mostly.

Christmas 2002

The High Plains of Texas

For those of you who chastised me for not sending a letter last Christmas, I am sitting here staring at my computer screen trying to think of something exciting or remarkable or at least humorous to report.  The innocent, cute remarks made by the boys years ago now ring a bit sarcastic when made by towering teenagers whose voices have dropped two octaves.  Telling you about their collective athletic prowess or stellar academic success would make for rewarding writing, yet, boring and - in some cases - fictional reading.  As I search for the words to paint an accurate view of the 2002 Life of the Lackeys, I am mentally scanning my house.  Perhaps a detailed description of the state of our home at 9AM on this bright Friday morning will suffice as our yearly report.

Living Room:  PlayStation 2 game controllers snake down the entertainment center across the floor.  Reed's electric guitar lounges across the two slipper chairs.  Alan's "vintage" acoustic guitar (seldom played by the father in the 70's, but often played by the sons) lazes on the floor in front of the fireplace.  A crumpled Coke can sits amidst the "Annalee" Santa tableau on the sofa table.  (At least the reds match.)  The pillows which belong on the couch lay crumpled on the floor in front of the TV still freshly molded with impressions of boy heads.  Two guitar picks lay in hiding just under the couch's skirt awaiting an unsuspecting vacuum cleaner.  The coveted Musician's Friend catalogue - pages ruffled and dog-eared - sits askew on top of a pile of neatly stacked magazines (Southern Living, Architectural Digest, and Martha Stewart Living) seldom thoroughly enjoyed by the adults in the household.  One size 12 skateboarding shoe lays on its side in the middle of the room, its odor competing with my "Stress-Free Rosemary Mint" candle softly burning on a nearby table.  Today is actually a good day.  There are no discarded dirty socks or shirts to be found on the floor or the furniture.

Kitchen:  The breakfast remains from boys in a hurry to skid to school are quite telling.  The Cocoa Krispy box sits open on the table with the "Welcome to Cocoa Stone National Park" joke-filled seek-and-find facing a bowl 2/3 full of pale brown milk in which a few swollen, leftover "Krispies" are floating.  Nearby, the milk jug languishes sans lid.  The droplets of water that had earlier condensed on the sides of the jug have all but evaporated.  A 16 oz. glass containing about 6 oz. of lukewarm chocolate milk accompanies the cereal bowl.  Hmm.  There on the counter under the microwave, I spy an empty bag of chicken nuggets which has been hastily cast aside.  My eyes can follow the trail of nugget crumbs to the bar where a dinner plate, also peppered with crumbs, sits abandoned.  One of my creme brulee ramekins, now only 1/2 full of ketchup sits on the plate amidst the crumbs.  [Bryce prefers breakfast foods like leftover pizza, chicken nuggets, or happily discovered leftover tamales.  He has never in his whole life had a bowl of cereal.  He actually went through a gagging phase a few years ago making it impossible for him to be in the same room with anyone casually enjoying a bowl of Frosted Flakes.]  Let's see...there is no trace of Jonathan's breakfast.  He's a late sleeper.  Oh, wait!  There it is.  The spoon.  He had just enough time to sail through the kitchen for a quick spoon of Cool Whip before scurrying out the door.  The wadded gum wrapper next to the spoon is evidence that he also didn't have quite enough time to brush his teeth.  The raucous Breakfast of Champions has softened into the peace of the chatty hour on the Today Show.  Welcome, Matt and Katie.

Jonathan's Lair:  Jonathan's kelly green walls scream with pages ripped from magazines, Coca Cola signs, and whatever else he can affix to the wall with staples.  A quick scan reveals the following:  movie ticket stubs, name tags from church youth events, clothing labels, posters of skateboarders frozen mid-trick, a paper Krispy Kreme hat, a cardboard Sonic "Fountain Beverages" sign, and a DC-NYC train ticket stubb from the summer of 2001.  Tucked into the frame of a Coke sign is his ticket stub from the Top of the World Trade Center elevator ride also saved from the New York trip.  The bed is "made."  The plaid comforter has been thrown up over the pillows and whatever else happened to be on the bed during hasty bedmaking.  A quick frisking tells me that no cat has been trapped within.  Jonathan refused the offer of a coordinating dust ruffle for his bed.  Therefore, the box springs are generally in full view along with the collection of clothes that he "stores" under the bed.  The floor is littered with cast off this-looks-dumb-on-me-today clothing, and, in contrast, his collection of CDs is meticulously stacked next to his stereo.  The closet doors are plastered with stickers.  On his desk just above the pile of dirty clothes growing up from the floor, a bottle of Davidoff's Cool Water por homme perches at the ready.

Bryce's Kingdom:  After 13 1/2 years of sharing a room with a brother, Bryce is finally the master of his domain.  Now, the room sports a few interesting amenities.  Crammed between the foot of the bunk beds and the closet door looms the Walmart weight set Bryce purchased with his accrued allowance this fall.  The weights are scattered about the room amidst discarded clothing.  A few weeks ago, Bryce returned from a Savers' shopping spree lugging a wingback-ish blue chair without legs.  [The mother who drove the pack of boys to Savers profusely apologized for letting him buy it, but he kept insisting that I wouldn't care.]  He plopped that lovely chair smack dab in the middle of his milieu and declared it the perfect height for watching the big screen TV he plans to purchase someday and put "right there."  His walls are adorned with the following:  One large poster of Einstein, numerous signs that he has rescued from roadsides and dumpsters, a poster of guitar chords, and a huge Baker skateboard banner.  One of the found signs reads "Wide Load."  Another advertises Kodak film processing.  An interesting side note:  Since the boys started doing their own laundry last summer, Bryce has discovered that the fewer clothes he wears, the less he has to wash.  I'm pretty sure that since 10/31/02, he has been wearing the orange boxer shorts with the black bat design that I gave him for Halloween tagged "your costume."  My new mantra:  "I will not give in and do his laundry.  I will not give in.  I will not."  

Reed's "Room" (fka the guest room and still doubling as my office):  Reed has been very congenial about sharing his new room with me.  Knowing that the mess restriction level would  be high since we share the space, he has tried to keep the floor clear of debris.  The walls of his room are painted a sour dill pickle green and decorated with framed vintage postcards ala Route 66.  The adjoining bathroom's walls are a sunny mustard yellow.  He chose the paint colors.  His electric guitar and mini-amp lean against the side of his/my desk and seem to be anticipating the boy's return like lonely little puppies.  By the way, I LOVE the mini-amp.  It's about the size of a purse and makes about as much noise.  Reed's beloved Raider's football helmet (as in the YFL 5th Grade Super Bowl Champion Raiders) apparently rolled off his bed and is now resting upside down against his dresser.  Propped up on display against one wall is the prized Simpson's "3-D" chess set that Reed purchased as his "special souvenir" during a family trip to San Francisco last summer.  The chess pieces are miniature Homers, Barts and Marges.  A peek into his closet reveals...aha!...a mountainous pile of all the stuff that was on his bedroom floor before he "straightened up" this morning.  On his bed, The Lord of the Rings patiently awaits bedtime reading.  I could tell you all the little hiding places which keep his money safe.  Reed saves money forever.  One day last spring, he asked Alan for a ride to Toys-R-Us so that he could "pick up and XBox."  Sure enough, he had squirreled away about $300 between his allowance and birthday checks.  Say...wouldn't it be nice if someday he asked Alan for a ride to college so that he could "pick up" his tuition?!  On second thought, I won't reveal his little hiding places.

The Master Bedroom:  Ahhhh.  The bed is made neatly with the decorative pillows placed just so.  The carpet is fully visible throughout the room.  The bedside lamps glow a subtle invitation to stay for a while to read my book du jour.  In the corner by Alan's side of the bed is a helter skelter stash of travel and ski magazines, travel books, and random catalogues.  Oh!  There is the Simpson's A Go-Go book that he and the boys surreptitiously pass back and forth with hearty recommendations.  "Dad!  Page 86!  Homer is trying to convince Marge to buy him a $300 toilet-thingy for his birthday!  Doh!"  On Alan's bedside table, a used cereal bowl sits waiting for the "little magic fairy" [Alan's words] to whisk it away to the kitchen.  Along the walls of my bedside corner the floor is stacked with books:  books I want to read...books I need to read...books I want to reread...books someone else wants me to read...and the October, November, and December issues of magazine that I have yet to crack open.  Lily and Dixie, our 2 black and white cats, are curled up together in my bedside chair looking very much like a hibernating two-headed cat.  I long to curl up with them and several of the magazines.

There you have it!  All is well in the Lackey household!  We are thoroughly enjoying our 3 active, humorous, messy sons!  Whenever their piles of rubble begin to get to me, I remind myself that in a few short years I will be lonely because they have ventured out into the world leaving us on our own in a very clean house.  The thought makes me feel tearful and giddy at the same time.  We are truly living our dreams.  I hope that the boys' dreams come true, and that they someday marry their own "little magic fairies."