Leslie Ann "Lueck" Kargo

No public Services are being planned at this time.

Most of you knew Leslie as Nanny; Nanny was born Leslie Ann Lueck on February 24, 1968, in Denver, Colorado, to Barbra Stucker and Ronald Lueck. She grew up with her brothers, Kevin and Christopher, in a family where love was loud and work was honest. They moved to Stratton, Colorado, where her dad poured concrete and her mom poured love into their home. That was the rhythm of her childhood: hands busy, heart open. You can see that through-line in every chapter that followed.

She met Scott Pottorff at Stratton High in 1985. A year later, she started the job she loved most-being a mom. Brittany, arrived on March 26, and eighteen months after that I showed up on October 6, 1986. We lived on the Pottorff family farm until 1992. If you ever wondered where Mom learned to handle a hundred little things at once-feeding people, fixing things, making do, laughing at the hard parts-try running a household on a farm with two little kids. That'll do it. After the farm, we moved to Clovis, New Mexico, then to Farwell, Texas. Life shifted again when my parents divorced in 1996. Mom took us to Amarillo, and that's where she built a life that shows you who she really was. She worked in retirement homes, helping people at their most vulnerable. She went to Amarillo College for nursing. And she took care of her own mom through the early 2000s, until we lost her. Mom was never afraid of hard things. She was the person you called when you didn't know what to do next. She'd answer late at night, say, "Alright, what are we dealing with?" and you could feel the ground beneath your feet again.

Later, she moved back to Denver and drove a school bus. That sounds simple until you think about it: every morning, a hundred parents trusted her with their kids. It made sense-Mom had a way of getting the noisy ones to quiet down and the quiet ones to speak up. In Denver she married Don Kargo. They were together for a couple of years before going their separate ways, but that name-Kargo-is one she carried proudly, the last chapter she signed as Leslie Ann Kargo. When her dad needed her, she didn't hesitate. She came home when he was going through chemo. She took him to appointments, asked the right questions, made sure the nurses knew exactly who Ron Lueck was. We lost him in 2014. I remember watching her sit next to him, half nurse, half daughter, fully present. That was Mom-showing up, no matter how heavy the day was.

If you ever played games with her, you know the stakes were high and the rules were flexible-if she was losing. Yahtzee could go past midnight, Phase 10 turned into Phase 200, and if you ever tried to slip a card under the table, she'd catch you without even looking. UNO got loud. The food never ran out. She'd cook like twenty people were coming, even if it was just five of us. And somewhere along the way she discovered Fireball. If you were new to the family and she liked you, there was a decent chance you'd be offered a "little sip" that was not, in fact, very little. NASCAR Sundays were her church as much as any place with pews. She didn't just know the drivers; she knew their stats, their stories, their tendencies on short tracks versus superspeedways. She'd pick her drivers early and talk a little trash. She had this way of calling a race before it turned. "Watch the pit stop," she'd say, "this'll do it," and then it did. The roar of the engines, the rhythm of the laps-she loved it because it felt like life: fast and messy, a little loud, and somehow always finding a way to finish.

As a grandma, she got even bigger. Ten grandchildren. Ten little lives who knew her hugs weren't just hugs-they were shelters. She'd show up to games and performances and school events. If she couldn't be there in person, she'd call late, ask a thousand questions, listen like time wasn't a problem. Her late-night advice wasn't fancy. It was plain, solid, and usually ended with a joke to make you stop spiraling. She had a light she could bring into a dark room, and she didn't wait to be asked. She just walked in with it. We talk about unconditional love like it's an idea. Mom made it ordinary and specific. Her faith was part of our foundation. We went to church a lot when we were kids. As we got older, we went less. But if you ever wanted to see what she believed, you didn't have to sit in a pew with her. You could watch her do the thing she did best-care. For strangers in retirement homes. For friends who were struggling. For her mom and her dad. For Brittany and Brett. For those ten grandkids. She prayed in the form of casseroles, rides, phone calls, laughter at the wrong moment that somehow made everything feel right.

There are a hundred little details we never want to forget. The way she'd claim she was "just going to make something quick" and then plate up a feast. The way she could loosen a bad day with one perfectly timed wisecrack. How she treated every family get-together like a reunion and a celebration all at once. How the house smelled on Sunday afternoons. How she never let you leave without leftovers. How she made room-at the table, in her plans, in her heart. She was not without edges. She had strong opinions, and she didn't mind sharing them. She could be stubborn on behalf of people who needed someone to be stubborn for them. But she used that fire well. She used it to show up, to protect, to love without calculation. She used it to make sure the person who felt small didn't leave feeling that way.

What will we miss most? The late-night advice. Her hugs. The way she could walk into a room that felt heavy and make it feel a little lighter. We'll miss the way she texted during a race like she was up in the booth calling it. We'll miss her telling us which card to play, which pan to use, which road to take. We'll miss being claimed by her out loud, in front of everybody. Today hurts. It should. If it didn't, it would mean she didn't matter. But even in the middle of it, we can hear her voice telling us what to do next. She'd tell us to feed the people who showed up. She'd tell us to sit down and play a hand-Yahtzee, Phase 10, UNO, whatever gets us around the same table. She'd tell us to pick our driver for Sunday. She'd tell us to call each other later, when the crowd is gone and the quiet gets big. And she'd tell us to laugh-because just when a story gets too heavy, that's when a joke can save you.

We'll take it from here, Nanny. We'll keep the light on. We'll play the next hand. We'll pick a driver you would've picked and yell at the TV like you taught us. We'll hold each other the way you held us-too tightly and for just a second longer than we thought we needed. Thank you for the love you poured into this family. Thank you for the jokes that broke the tension. Thank you for every ride

Memorial Contributions may be made in Leslie's name in care of any Eastern Colorado Bank Location