Homecoming tales; Beauty in imperfection

Las Vegas, Nevada.

October, 2005.

Two Months Before Christmas.

It was a beautiful four-story building with clean lines, glittering plate glass and a golden rod colored door. A tribute to the architect who designed the building.

An elongated piece of driftwood attached to the right of the door was painted the same shade of goldenrod. The plaque said it was the Karen Morrison Building. The overall opinion of visitors and clients was that the building was remarkable, which was the architect and owner’s objective.

The young sun was just creeping over the horizon when Les Morrison tucked his briefcase between his knees, searching his jean pocket for the key that would unlock his pride and joy, the Karen Morrison Building which was named after his mother.

Opening the door, Les turned off the alarm and flicked the light switch on. Taking a moment, he looked around the lobby of the building he’d designed when he was still in college studying architecture. He was a lucky man for he’d been able to show his mother the blueprints before she’d passed on.

It was his mother’s idea to have bamboo plants to match the green marble floors and also paint clouds with blue sky on the ceiling. "The fieldstone wall behind the glistening mahogany desk is a must." she’d said.

Fieldstone were transported to Las Vegas from Fairfax Virginia in a U-Haul truck. There was nothing he could deny his mother because she brought him up to become the influential person he is.

Moving through the spacious lobby, there was only one picture hanging in there. Karen Morrison portrait next to a sixty-foot blue spruce Christmas tree that she had his father plant the day he was born. That tree is gone now from the Morris Christmas Tree Farm, donated to the White House by Steve Morrison, his father, the same year his mother died.

He’d gone to Washington DC, going on a Christmas tour so he could see the tree. He’d been so choked up he could hardly speak to one of the security details. “Can you break off a branch from the back of the tree and give it to me?” He asked.

For one wild moment, he thought he was going to be arrested, but he wasn't. They didn't attend to him until he explained to the agent why he wanted the branch. He’d had to wait over two hours for one of the gardeners to arrive with a pair of clippers.

His father had a hard time not bawling his eyes out that day but he’d returned to Les Vegas with the branch, pressed between two panes of glass. it hung on the wall over his drafting table. He looked at it a hundred times a day and it meant more to him than anything else in the world.

Les stared at the picture of his mother the way he did every morning. As always, his eyes grew moist and his heart beat against his ribcage. He offered up a quick salute the way he’d always done when she was right about something and he was wrong and at this point in his daily routine, he never dawdled.

He darted across the lobby to the elevator riding to the fourth floor where he had his office so he could settle in for the day.

As Les does, he prepared his coffee. While waiting for it to brew, he took the opportunity to check his appointment book. There was nothing much to do since it was a Friday and almost the weekend.

It was the middle of October and business tends to slow down. He wished it was otherwise, because the approaching holiday season always left him depressed. He told himself not to complain, he had more jobs than he could handle the other ten months of the year.

When you were named “Architect of the stars” five years running, there was no other reason to complain.

His enormous bank balance said his worth was right up there with some of Nation's influential people. Though it wasn't all about money, he was making his own creation. Architectural Design magazine had featured eleven of his projects to date and named him with the term “wonder boy.” Creating something from nothing and letting his imagination run.

Everyone in the business who knew or knew Les Morrison were aware that when the new owners moved into one of his custom-designed houses, Les himself showed up wearing a tool belt and carrying a Marty Bell painting which are gifts to the new owners. Also he helped them hang it.

Les loved this time of the day, when he was all alone with his coffee. It was when he let his mind go into overdrive before the hustle and bustle of the day began. He ran a loose ship, allowing his staff to dress in jeans and casual clothing, allowing them to play music in their offices, taking long breaks.

He had only three hard and fast rules. Think outside the box, Never screw over a client, and Produce to your capability.

His staff consists of fifteen full-time architects, four part-timers, and an office pool of six had been with him from day one. It all works out pretty well.

As Les sipped his coffee he let his mind wander,

"Should I go surfing in Hawaii over the Christmas Or the islands for some sun and a little snorkeling?"

"Who would I ask to accompany me?" He thought to himself.

Swirling his cup of coffee, he thought out loud,

"Sue with tantalizing lips, Chloe with the bedroom eyes or Ellen the gymnast with the incredible legs? “He couldn't conclude on one.

After he had been able to agree with his thoughts, he finally made a decision, "None of the above." He said to himself. He was sick of false eyelashes, dramatic makeup, spiky hair, painted-on dresses and shoes with heels like weapons.

He needed to find a nice young woman he could communicate with, someone who understood what he was all about, not someone who is interested only in his wealth and at thirty-four, it was time to start thinking about settling down. Time to give up takeout for a home cooked meal. Time to get a dog. Time to build up a family, thinking about having kids. Time to think about putting down roots somewhere, not necessarily here in Nevada, the land of milk and honey, orange blossoms and beautiful women.

Les adjusted the baseball cap on this head, the cap he was never without. Sometimes he even slept with it on. It was battered and worn, tattered and torn but he’d given up all he held dear before he’d part with his cap that said Morrison Farm on the crown. He settled it firmly on his head as he heard his staff coming in and getting ready for the day.

He finished his coffee, grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door. He had a 7:30 appointment with the Fire Marshall on a project he was winding up. He high-fived several members of his staff as he took the steps to the lobby where he stopped long enough to give Jane, the Morrison Firm’s official receptionist, a smooch.

“How’s it going this morning, Jane?”

“Just fine, Les. What time will you be back?”

Checking his wristwatch, “I should be back by ten-thirty. If anything earth-shattering happens, call me on the cell. See ya”

As good as this word, Les strode back into the lobby at 10:27. From the corner of his eye, he noticed an elderly couple sitting on a padded bench between two of the bamboo trees. Jane caught his eye and motioned him to her desk,

“That couple is here to see you. They said they’re from your hometown. Their names are Joyce and Alfred Mckinley. They don’t have an appointment. Can you see them? They’re here visiting their daughter who just graced them with their first grandchild.”

Les grinned. “I see you got all the details. Joyce and Alfred here in Vegas! I can’t believe it.”

“We’re of an age, darling boy. Go over there and make nice to your hometown guests.” Jane replied.

Les’s guts started to churn. Visits with Joyce and Alfred meant taking a trip down Memory Lane and that was one place he would like not to travel. He pasted a smile on his face as he walked over to the patiently waiting couple.

He was hugged by Joyce and shook hands with Alfred.

“Good to see you sir. Miss Joyce, you haven’t changed a bit. Jane tells me you’re grandparents now. Congratulations!" They thanked me.

I spoke again, "Come on up to the office and have some coffee. I think we even have mini-baked donuts. We always have baked donuts with cinnamon sugar on Friday.”

“What a majestic, fine-looking building this is, Lester. The lady at the desk said it’s all yours. She said you designed it.” Joyce said.

“I did,” Les mumbled.

Alfred smiled at me, “Heaven above. I wish your mama could have seen this. She was always so proud of you, Les.”

They were in the elevator before Les responded. “Mom saw the blueprints. She suggested some things, like the fieldstone and the bamboo trees. Did you see the picture?”

“We did, and it is a fine picture of Karen. We tell everyone that tree ended up in the White House.” Joyce said.

Les was saved from a reply when the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open. Joyce gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

“This is so. . . grand, Lester." She said.