LynelleSpeak

Your official job title was security guard. Every day at the same time I saw you walking up the sidewalk to the lobby, lunch bag in hand. You greeted me and opened the double doors, looking to the left and right, to see who might be passing by in the hospital corridors to chat. Then you took your post, standing next to the desk where I sat as receptionist. You greeted one and all who came into the lobby as if they were your next door neighbor. You got me through bad hair days and through love life drama days. "He now realizes what he's lost, but he knows that it's too late for him," you advised me. We shared plenty of laughs, as well.

I learned fascinating things about you. Your parents divorced when you were a child. Your sister stayed with your mother and you stayed with your dad. You were not Catholic but you attended Catholic school. You have never tasted chocolate in your whole life. When you and your first wife divorced she took everything from you. But she gave you freedom from her and that was all that you needed. Your second wife died of cancer and you raised your children alone. You knew your third wife was the one the moment you laid eyes on her. The first time you were with your new wife you saw your deceased wife standing in the doorway. She smiled and nodded at you.

One evening I watched the news and it was reported that an elderly lady walked up to her ex-boyfriend and shot him at point range. I later learned that the victim in the news story was your father-in-law. That was the day you came to work and, instead of peering into the corridors to chat with passersby you went directly to the room behind the lobby desk and called your wife.

On this Memorial Day I remember that you are, and I thank you for being a Viet Nam veteran. And on more days than you know I remember how your unofficial job title was Lynelle's security blanket.

You are the youngest of my nieces and nephews. I think I can still get away with calling you a baby. After all, I hold you more than Andrew and Caroline. Well, obviously because you are younger than they. But even much of the time while playing with Andrew and Caroline I have held you. You see, for years I played with Andrew and Caroline together, almost as if they were twins, so close in age were they. When you came along, it seemed only natural to me that you be inseparable with them, as well. So while I was playing hide-and-go-seek and other such games with them, you were a part of those times. I held you when I counted to 25, and when I hid. You always added your baby charm to those times. You echoed my counting, you scooted around and found your older brother and sister often before I did, and you inadvertantly helped your older brother and sister find yourself and me. At some point I realized that perhaps it was hard for Andrew and Caroline to see me holding you so much. An Aunt makes mistakes too I painfully learned. But it's all worked out because now you are not as interested in being held so much. Just the other day when I asked you, "pick up?" before we went down the stairs, you replied, "no." Instead you put out your hand, and hand-in-hand we walked down the stairs. My first blog is dedicated to you, Brennan. You will always be the baby of all of my nephews and nieces. Without further ado, I introduce my favorite BrennanSpeak:

mama, now often pronounced as MY mama when looking at pictures
dada, now often pronounced as MY dada when looking at pictures
Drew-Drew, now pronounced as D-Drew
Cly, evolved as Cla-la, now affectionately pronounced as La-la
Nell, just the other day pronounced as Nell-Nell
key-kat
side (outside)
klee-klee (blankie)
chee-chee (Cheerios)
no
nana
nana (banana, in another context)
nigh-nigh
love you
canteloupe, then laughingly pronounced la-la-lope
car
truck
yeee-haw! (mimicking the sound a donkey makes)
wa-wa (water)
ahh-eee (ouchy)
boo-bah (school bus)