As you may know, we attended the memorial service for my husband’s uncle Carl Lancy on Sunday. My husband created a wonderful photo video montage for the service, and wrote a touching and eloquent eulogy for the uncle he loved so much. I wanted to post it to my blog so that I would have a copy of it for always. Thank you for indulging me.
January 10, 2010
Carl A. Lancy Memorial
For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Craig. I am one of Carl’s nephews. I appreciate the opportunity to take a few minutes to talk about my Uncle.
When I started this process a week ago, I didn’t realize how difficult it would be. I’ve never been one to be at a loss for words, about anything. Getting up and speaking in front of a room full of people has never been an issue for me either. My problem was that I have such a vast collection of memories of my Uncle that I didn’t really know where to begin. Given the opportunity, would I discuss his home life or his civic duties and accomplishments, his work with the church or his personal likes and dislikes (the Chicago Bears for instance). Everyone here has their own memories and experiences with my uncle. I decided I would share some of mine.
My uncle was known by many different names:
Many knew him as Carl
Close family and friends, including his parents, called him Cal.
One person called him Dad
Others knew him simply as Mr. Lancy.
Me – I called him Uncle. Not Uncle Carl or Cal, just Uncle.
Uncle and I shared a unique relationship. He was 16 years old when I was born and we lived in the same house. My parents were young and just married, just starting out. We all lived with my grandparents. Before my parents bought their own place, Uncle and I actually shared a bedroom for a short while. You could say he was my first roommate.
We got along pretty well, as far as roommates go. He used to like to fall asleep with the television on and I liked to stay up late. When he would turn on channel 5 and drift off quickly, I would stay awake—to watch Johnny Carson.
This is actually one of my earliest memories of Uncle. I couldn’t have been more than 3 years old at the time. We had twin beds. His was on the right, mine was on the left. I can picture the layout of the room, the TV itself, with large dials on the front.
I can only imagine how difficult it would be to be a teenager and share a bedroom with a toddler. I always felt welcome.
Shortly thereafter, my parents got a place of their own. They still dropped me off at my grandparents’ house en route to the train station every day. I would usually get there before Uncle woke up. He would go through his routine getting ready for the day, which included blow drying his hair. Later in the day, I’d blow dry my hair, too.
I remember him car pooling, getting picked up from the house by his friends, heading off to work. I would stand in the picture window and wave goodbye. He’d tell his friends, “wave to the kid,” and they would. I felt special.
I desperately wanted to be like Uncle. I didn’t want curly blond hair, I wanted straight brown hair. I didn’t want to learn to ride a bike, that was kid stuff. I wanted to drive—a 1971 Malibu. And I didn’t want to go to Kindergarten; I wanted to go to college—just like Uncle.
He even took me to my first bar. I was about 10 or 11 years old. It was after a softball game played in a park behind the HF racket club. We went to the 5th Quarter Tap in downtown Homewood. He bought me sodas and gave me money to play the pinball machines. People were laughing and carrying on. I didn’t feel like a kid. I felt like I was part of the team, one of the guys. It seemed like we were out all night and I didn’t want it to end. In actuality I think we got home around 10:30 or 11.
As more people came into his life, my feelings of belonging never waned. When he and Pam got married, I was in the wedding party. When his son Matthew was born, he asked me to be his God parent.
For years now, Uncle would call from time to time, just to chat, about nothing in particular. Especially if he was driving to a customer or client’s place, or picking something up for a fundraiser or an event, my phone would ring.
I could always count on a call when the weather was particularly beautiful, not a cloud in the sky. I’d be at my desk doing some mundane accounting task. The phone would ring and I would see the familiar 708-516 number on my caller ID. I would answer the phone pretending I didn’t know it was Uncle, knowing full on what he was up to.
“This is Craig, how can I help you?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m doing bank reconciliations, what are you doing?”
“We’re getting ready to tee off on the back nine at (you can insert any upscale golf course, Cantigni, Water’s Edge, etc.)
He’d either be with someone from the school board, from church, his brother-in-law, his boss, a client, it didn’t really matter. He would tell them he needed a minute to call and harass his nephew.
It was things of this nature that made me feel, in all honesty, that Uncle was more like an older brother to me than an uncle in the traditional sense. We would tease each other, but I never felt unimportant; I felt like I mattered, like I was loved.
As I reflect on so many memories, I think back to when I was a child, and how much I wanted to be like Uncle, and I guess I wasn’t that far off the mark after all.
He was a son, a brother, an Uncle. He was a loving and devoted husband, a doting father, a pillar of the community. He got involved, he gave back, he mattered, and he was loved.
I love my Uncle. He’s been a major influence on my life and I’m going to miss him immensely.
Da Bears. Can you pick him out?
A boy after my own heart!
