Memories of Rex

The "Other" Rooster

2011-12-04T10:13:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, I posted about my experience dispatching an unwanted rooster. Well, as you recall, there were TWO roosters.

Here is the link to "The Other Rooster"

I hope you enjoy it!

(Love you DAD!!! I know you'd be proud of me.)

Dad would be proud: A Different Kind of Dispatching

2011-09-14T21:55:00.000-07:00

I recently had an experience that needed an old-fashioned "Rex Essay" - so I wrote it up, and here it is for your enjoyment. I think Dad would have enjoyed this! -Rachel

A Different Kind of Dispatching

By Rachel Sharich

September 2011

I grew up in a good sized California city, just like my mother. My dad was a Northern California country boy and exposed us somewhat to the ways of the poor rural life he had known growing up: cast iron skillets, killing your own dinner, reusing old cast-off items that people threw out, and trying to be self sufficient. He tried to teach us the value of money and that eggs at the store didn't come from a clean little egg factory and that some people ate all the parts of a cow, including the tongue.

We had some chickens growing up, and even a goat once. The chickens were a source of fresh eggs, and pecked little children’s legs. Dad once even trimmed the beaks of the entire flock so they couldn’t peck us while we played in the backyard. I remember him holding the hens under his arm, squeezing them tight, and as I recall, using tree pruners to cut the fingernail like tip off the beak. Those chickens were scared of us after that. And honestly, I was still scared of them. Even with a blunted face, they would still try to tag us on the hands or legs when we gathered poopy, feathery eggs from the coop.

Once a hen gets too old to lay, there’s no sense in paying for feed to keep it alive just to have a pet around - no sense in Dad’s view anyway. So, one night we were told to stay in the house and Dad was in the garage with the chickens. I knew he was killing them, and in my 8 year old mind, his myriad of carpenter tools came into play. I imagined it like an old fashioned black and white flicker show. The villain, complete with waxed handlebar mustache and black cape, places the unsuspecting chicken in some bench-top vice and laughs maniacally while slowly tightening the vice on the hen’s lanky neck. Then he twirls his mustache as he tries to decide which tool to employ in his evil doing. Whether we actually ate that chicken for dinner or not, I don’t know. Knowing Dad, the meat hit the bottom of a cast iron skillet with some garden veggies and bacon. But now I know how it feels to wear a cape and twirl my waxed handlebar mustache with plans of dispatching a chicken. Dad would be so proud, except for the actual dispatching part. You’d think that as a professional police dispatcher for over 10 years, I’d be more adept at this. But it’s a different kind of dispatching.

The extra rooster was doomed from the start. We got four little chicks for our newly built chicken coop and crossed our fingers that we got 4 hens. With my internet research, I guessed we picked out 2 hens and 2 roosters, not bad for first timers. After several weeks, my suspicion was confirmed: we indeed had 2 roosters. What to do? Kill them? Keep one and raise baby chicks? That could work. But there was another rooster to deal with. Should I put an ad in the paper for a free rooster? There were several already. Oh well, we’ll just keep them both and see what happens.

Well, chicken feed isn’t free. Bugs and leaves in the yard only go so far and don’t feed a flock of four growing fowl. I decided to try my hand at butchering the extra roo, once they were grown and meaty enough to make it worth the trouble. At about six months old, they all seemed full grown, so I decided it was time to do away with one rooster.

The internet was a good source of information, as usual, for the how to instructions. City girls can watch a few YouTube videos, and read a few BackyardChickens.com articles to feel empowered enough to do the deed.

Ryan took the girls to preschool. I had 3 hours for my dastardly project before curious little eyes wanted to see what Mommy was doing in the backyard. I watched my favorite YouTube video one more time for reassurance.

Everyone in the videos was dressed in plastic garb, head to toe with aprons and gloves and plastic coverings. But they were processing dozens of chickens. I was only planning on one today. I didn’t want to get in too deep with two dead roosters and not be able to stomach the act in the first few moments and waste good meat. What would Dad think of that? What would I do with a couple of dead roosters besides eat them? I didn’t want a pet graveyard in the backyard. I decided I need more practice at living off the land before I tried any other new ideas like goats or pigs or say, a second dead rooster.

I got a knife from the kitchen and put on my gym shorts and flip flop shoes. Only one chicken shouldn’t make too much mess. This will be done soon and I’ll have plenty of time to work on my furniture refinishing project before the girls get home from school, I thought. So, I rounded up the first rooster. All the professional villans used a “killing cone” - a device to hold the chicken during the alive to dead part. You put the chicken in upside down in the cone with his head sticking through the hole in the bottom and slice the jugular vein, allowing the chicken to lose blood quickly and relax himself to death. It seems much more humane than, say, beating the chicken with a stick or shovel, or even chopping the head off and watch the running around decapitated as the old saying suggests. Does that actually happen? I wondered, but didn't want to find out.

I climbed in the chicken coop and picked out my target. Obviously, the flock thought I was there bringing treats or going to let them out to scratch around in the yard. “Squawk, squawk! Why don’t you have any food? Let us out!” They had no idea that just outside the coop, a knife was waiting to meet their friend’s neck. I scooped up the victim and took him to my chosen murder site between the two large peach trees at the edge of the lawn.

He was calm inside the firm grasp of my arm. It would help, I thought to myself, to have a third arm. It would help with taking care of twins, and it would help when killing chickens. I’m sure there are other applications where an extra limb would be useful, but these were all I could think of at that moment.

Without a killing cone, my plan was to lay him on the ground and hover closely over him, slice the neck and back off so the spurting blood wouldn’t get all over me.

Slice! A wound the size of a large papercut appeared on the roosters neck. Obviously, I need a sharper knife for next time but I was in position and had the nerve at that moment. Slice. Slice! SLICE! I got a good cut finally and released my grip on the bird. Blood didn't gush out like on a horror movie, but this was only a chicken. There was some, uh, oozing? He stayed on the ground. As long as he’s relaxed enough while he bleeds to death, I don’t feel so bad. After a few seconds or so, he still seemed alive so I touched his foot. And up he went! Running for his life at the chicken speed of light. Through the tall weeds, past the chicken coop, under the grapevines, over the garden barrier and hopped up on a dirt mound at the corner of the fenced lot.

Well, that sucks. I was left dumbfounded. The tally was: Chicken 1, City Girl Zilch. Maybe he will just slowly bleed to death over there by the fence while standing up, staring me down, hating me and cursing my name. He’ll surely just fall over from loss of blood. Any second now. Any second. He darted back into the low hanging grapevines with the other chickens, no doubt warning them of his harrowing experience. Will I find a dead chicken near the grapevines? I walked over and all four birds scurried out into the open. I followed their path to the green lawn that needed mowing and they all ran in different directions. The maimed rooster didn’t seem so maimed. If he wasn’t lightheaded by now, my amateur knife wound must surely be clotting over.

How to finish this? Time is ticking away, and this was supposed to be the easy part. The knife just wasn’t working. A shovel could do the trick. But I doubt I’d be a great aim using a shovel javelin and I’m also not as quick as a chicken running for its life. Maybe I could use the shovel as a bat. I’m not a sports kid and have trouble even at batting cages and golf. I don’t think I could really get the business end of the shovel around in time to make contact with the ball, I mean head. I grabbed a piece of lumber. An old 2x2 about 30 inches long. I could probably just whack him in the head with this and that would be the end of it.

I certainly got my exercise chasing that rooster all over the yard. The tally changed over and over, but only in his favor. He ran into the tomato plants and I knew I had him. As soon as he tried to come out of the dense greenery, I’d bop him on the head and that would be the end of this fiasco. I waited patiently, club in hand, and watched for movement. The leaves of the tomato plant shook and I swung my sword. The little bugger got past me and was running back toward the lawn with his friends. If he had been my only rooster, I would surely just let him live after this. He had earned it! But duelling roosters in a hen house was not any drama I want to deal with. Maybe I’d just wait for Ryan to get home. Two city folk could certainly trap and kill a chicken easier than one.

It was a little disheartening to admit to Ryan that I had failed in my multiple attempts at chicken massacre. It was downright embarrassing to ask him for help with the wrangling. He put on his tennis shoes and we went back to the battlefield. We came up with a game plan. We would herd him into the rear part of the yard and get him cornered, then we’d bean him on the noggin. We determined after several plans of attack, that chickens on the defensive are very nimble, and humans on the unsuccessful offensive are thirsty. Maybe we really should just let him live. Nah. He finally ran into the dead end alley between the garage and the fence. The stretch of dirt was 3 feet wide and 20 feet long. Unless he flew over the 6 foot fence into the neighbors yard, he wasn’t getting out. He couldn’t escape us now.

Ryan went down the corridor, wielding the lumber of death. I expected to hear “THUD, THUD, THUD! Okay, come get him!” One minute or more of silence left me to wondering what Ryan was doing. I walked to the very back of the property where the rooster would ultimately lose his life. Had Ryan even attempted to clobber him? One swift whack and he’d be a goner. But indeed, it was a stand off. Is there a barricaded chicken SWAT page I could send out for assistance? Ryan stood there holding the stick and the chicken stared him down, neither one flinching. I told Ryan that I would do it. He gladly passed off the murder weapon and stepped aside. Ryan had been a vegetarian for ten years before we got married. I had turned him to the dark side about 6 months into our marriage. I didn’t want this experience to send him running back to the other team. I knew this was my show.

I took the end of the square post in my right hand and braced myself for the impact. Wham! He was still on his feet. I guess I hit like a girl. Wham! Wham! Wham! He slumped over and then flopped uncontrollably between the fence and the garage wall for 20 seconds as the multiple head wounds finally ended his mortality. Ryan was wide-eyed watching the last seconds of fowl seizure. “Was that supposed to happen?” I thought sarcastically to myself, “No, he was supposed to bleed to death an hour ago.” But I said under my breath, “Yeah.” Ryan solemnly said, “Sorry chicken.” He walked away to start his project of mowing the lawn.

I waited a few minutes until there was no movement. Picking up a twitching chicken would be just plain traumatic, as if the whole experience up to this point was just a run of the mill day at our house. I grasped his feet and made my way out of the alleyway toward the processing area complete with wooden cutting surface and running water.

Well, that took about 59 minutes longer than I thought it would. Now on to the part I was most unsure about: getting our little friend ready for the cookpot.

I walked over to the processing area, aka, the raised garden bed near the hose and spigot. I rested the lifeless lump of feathers on the wood beam and picked up my knife that had failed me an hour earlier.

I hunched over this way and that, eyeballing the neck and the now infamous, yet useless, slice mark. Small garden rocks kept getting in between my toes making me realize that flip flops weren’t the optimal footwear in this treacherous backyard environment. I contemplated my apparatus, my task at hand, and if any nausea would kick in. I wasn’t exactly in my comfort zone. It would have been handy to have a pro there beside me pointing and encouraging. All I had was a squeamish husband mowing back and forth, back and forth. With each lawn mower pass, Ryan got further away from my view, but li

ke a car accident rubbernecker, could hardly take his eyes off what I was doing. Finally, I told him “Don’t look.” He went about his business like normal.

I placed the point of my dull knife just down from the rooster’s head and applied pressure. I had to use a sawing motion to get through the tissue. I remembered Dad’s story of a dull pocket knife and “dispatching” an injured deer on the side of the highway for the upset city woman

who creamed the frolicking deer. With the head now disconnected from the body, it was obvious that I needed a place to put the unwanted parts. But the bird also needed to bleed more. Thankfully, there was an apricot tree a few feet away. I positioned the headless bird upside down in the crook of a branch and went after my empty plastic steer manure bag that had been floating around the yard for a few months. If I fall down dead right now, I can’t imagine what they’d say: Why did she have a decapitated chicken in a tree? Was she in a cult? Oh the horror my family would endure if I broke my neck tripping on a twins-produced Barbie swimming hole in the dirt.

The hose was used multiple times during this whole operation. I must have run the hose for an hour. Water equals sanitation? Maybe. With makeshift bodybag in hand, I dropped the head down to the bottom corner and sat back down to work on my dinner. It might not be my dinner tonight, bu

t eventually I was going to eat this troublemaker.

I spun the carcass around and took off the feet at the knee joint. Do chickens have knees? I briefly thought of giving the feet to the dogs to chomp on, but decided I didn’t want to give the dogs any more interest in the flock than they already had. Into the garbage sack they went. I stretched out the right wing and hyper extended it to reveal the first wing joint. I made my cut. Then the left side came off. This was going much easier now. I pulled at the skin at the breast of the bird, poked my knife in and made a slice away from the meat, opening the rooster for skinning. I had decided weeks ago that I didn’t want to take the time to pluck feathers. I read stories and it seemed a lot of work just to have skin. Maybe I’ll try that another time, but for this time, I’m going skinless.

Just as the video showed, I pulled the skin away from the meat on the entire body, the wings, the legs, and back. Feminine as I usually am not, I decided feeling the muscle and bone with bare hands it was kinda yucky and I wanted gloves. Good thing I dye my hair red and have a large box of plastic gloves handy in the bathroom. I’ve always been a redhead, and thanks to Clariol dye, I always will be. I rinsed my hands off and went inside. Hand sanitizer sits on the kitchen counter and I was glad of that. Two pumps for extra insurance and I was off to the bathroom to find some protection.

Ryan was putting the lawn mower away by this time and wondered if I was finished. “No, I just want some gloves.” I got two pair and sat down at the computer. I’m at the most nerve wracking part: the gutting. I don’t want to slice the wrong bulbous protrusion in the rib cage and end up with garden fertilizer dripping everywhere. Time to review the video one last time. It was only about five minutes long and the farmers taping this educational video had quite a southern drawl. I wondered if they knew that dumb city folk watched this before they hacked up their own chickens. Makes you think.

I had a little more knowledge under my belt and I was able to focus on what was coming up. Walked outside and gloved up. I finished pulling the skin away from the body and as expected, had to use a little more force to free the skin from the wings and legs. I don’t know where all the little feathers come from, but there seemed to be thousands sticking to my gloves, sticking to the meat, sticking to the knife. Lots of rinsing ensued. I pushed on the carcass to get a better grip and felt and heard a little accordion noise. OH MY DEAR HEAVENS! That rooster had one more thing to say, I guess. I decided that was probably the strangest part of this whole experience and hoped it wouldn’t happen again. Glad Ryan wasn’t here for that. The animal had been decapitated for at least 45 minutes.

I followed the directions drawled out by the woman who had obviously had her gloved hands in hundreds if not thousands of dead animals. I slowly cut away at the bottom of the rib cage where my southern belle teacher told me to. I made my cuts opening up the abdominal cavity of the bird, although not as precise as she did. The quality of a knife sure can make or break it for this experience. I saw some innards and felt like, as long as this part went well, I could be done and showered by the time the kids got home from their 3 hour preschool session. But I had to hurry. This had already taken almost 2 hours.

If I did everything just right, no poo would touch my meat, and all the guts would be in a nice little, non drippy, non leaky package of skin and feathers. Seemed easy enough if you’re practiced at it. I just had to get the practicing part done. I finished my knifing and then shoved my gloved hand up into the oddly small chest to loosen the lungs and such. I wiggled my fingers around and tried to figure out what lump was what. It was an interesting anatomy lesson, if only I were a high school health teacher I could use this as a lab experiment and the kids could shish kebab their own lunches. I didn’t know how rough I could get with my hand in the roosters unmentionables, so I took my time being gentle. I didn’t want any gooey surprises. I made more cuts down by the vent - that’s chicken talk for special parts - that’s toddler talk for butt hole. It seemed to be going okay. I was just being careful and taking my time. I think I’m almost done!

With the innards loosened to my satisfaction, I carefully slid my knife inside the bird and attempted to sever the windpipe and esophagus. This kung fu move would allow all the guts I had just tickled to fall out and away from the bird. Sever, sever, saw away. Good grief, if I wasn’t almost done, I’d go to the store right now and buy a new knife. Finally the neat little package-o-guts fell out just like BettyJo Sue said it would. It took her all of 2 minutes. It took me all of, much longer.

Last, I cut the neck all the way off and removed the crop - that’s chicken talk for big slimy sack of gross wet sand and rocks and bits of other indigestible items that help the chicken... do who knows what. But you don’t want to cut that open either or you could get crud on you. I rinsed the bird inside and out. Then I decided to do like all the other hunters do when they get a noteworthy kill: get someone to take a picture of the hunter holding a dead animal. Poor Ryan.

I won’t turn this into a weekend ritual, or even a seasonal hobby. I’m glad I have a different kind of dispatching under my belt. If ever the world comes to an end, and we need to turn our hens into supper, it will be easy to guide the husband through the process. I’ll boil the water.

"YOUR" Grand-daughters & Our Life Update

2011-08-30T22:16:00.001-07:00

Hey Dad,

Today was YOUR granddaughters' first day of preschool.

Chloe on the left holding a leaf, Ady on the right

Ady on left, Chloe on right - Standing in line waiting to go into class

They were so excited, neither of them cried or anything. Ryan and I walked away not really knowing what to do with our time...

My long term plans are to refinish the bedroom furniture you gave me from Knoles Court. I remember that you got it second hand when you got married. I'm going to do a cream whitewash with dark brown glazing. I'll let you know how it turns out.

I've been canning alot. The neighbor gave me some green beans and I canned 9 pints. 40 quarts of apricots, 20 pints of apricot jam. The peaches were tougher, so I only got about 10 quarts of peaches canned besides the jam. Lots of soups, meats, etc. I sure do love the pressure canner. What a great $70 spent!

Hoping our chickens start to lay soon. And I'll be getting some fertilized eggs to incubate too. We only have 2 hens, with 2 roosters. I'd sure love your advice on butchering chickens. One of the roosters is headed for the cookpot (reminding me of "Peach" on Lonesome Dove), maybe both if I don't hate the processing part of the deal. I remember you "processing" chickens in the garage at Knoles Court. We were told to stay in the house! That's all I know. Bummer. That knowledge could come in quite handy about now.

Love you, Dad. MUH!

Dear Dad

2011-03-21T19:33:00.001-07:00

Hey Dad,

I talked to Grandma today. Aunt Marian has been sending texts about a storm that has knocked out the power and blocked the roads with downed trees. Grandma has been out of power for 3 days. Uncle Sam has been up there a few times to help her secure some things and shovel some snow. Marian said she'd probably be stuck at home for several days due to the trees blocking the roads, etc.

Grandma's gas heater still works so she's just reading in the tv room and keeping warm with blankets. She only ventures outside to get the dogs fed. She said if the electricity is out for much longer, she'll start burying her frozen food in the snow so it doesn't spoil.

Well, I've been working on food storage and here's a pic of our food storage room.

I finally am making good use of that 9th Ward packet you gave me years ago. I've got a 55gal drum of water for drinking, along with some 2L soda bottles filled for sanitation water. You'd be so proud of my pressure canning and wheat grinding and bread making and gardening. There's a little food storage calculator online that calculates the daily caloric needs of whoever you're storing for (by age and gender) and then you input the food you have stored and it tells you how many days/weeks/months of food you have. It even tells you that you need more calcium or Vitamin C or whatever you're lacking. I think it's a great site!! We have over 90 days right now and I'm planning on buying a 25lb sack of something food storage related from the Church each month to build our supply.

And since I can't just store beans and expect I'll know how to cook with them and eat them later, I'm learning how to use beans in everyday foods. There's even some websites with crazy chicks that grind white beans into bean flour and use that in recipes. So weird, but I've tried a few things and it's fun!

I'm even considering a chicken coop. I remember the chicken coop you had at our Knoles Court house. Simple design, but functional. That's what I'm going with. And they have something called a chicken tractor that I thought would work out great for my function. It has wheels on one side so you can move it around your yard if you want. Thought that was pretty cool.

Anyway. The girls are getting so big and jibber jabber all day long. They are both so tall, they look like 5 year olds and to remind your old Grump-Pa brain, they are only 3 1/2. They love to be outside and look for "wormies" and play in the garden and dig dirt. They still scream if they see a bug, since Aunt Aubrey freaked out at a roach, but we're working on it. "If you're gonna be outside, there are gonna be bugs, so you don't get to scream if you see one."

Ryan and I have been taking the girls to church. The step from Nursery to Sunbeams was a bit of a worry for them, but they are finally getting into it. Chloe has been asked to say the Third Article of Faith in Primary and we've been working on it each night. She's pretty good and if I start a phrase, she can repeat it and usually finish the phrase without help. Ryan has been going to PH meeting and I'm a teacher in RS. We meet with the Bishop in a few weeks and I'm hoping to get us to the temple before the end of the year. It was a promise I wanted to make to you, but never said out loud. But now, I'm saying it here. I'll make it there, Dad.

We're all happy and healthy. I guess we can't ask for more. Love you!

MUH!

Rex's Granddaughters Christmas Card

2010-12-17T22:47:00.000-08:00

Letter From Dad: To Aubrey

2010-12-04T21:44:00.000-08:00

Sent: Wed 12/28/05 11:50 AM

Aubrey,
My computer sorta froze up not long after I sent you that email last night. I had to unplug it to get it to shut down. Until I did that the computer wouldn't function and the phone line was tied up and unusable. It's not a good idea to just unplug a computer because some data may be lost. Fortunately, nothing seems to be wrong with it today.
There are a few chores to do here for Gma. Getting things ready for the cold, freezing winter. Covering waterpipes and faucets, checking rain gutters, covering special treasures exposed to the elements, etc. Getting the chicken pen more comfortable for her 2 hens is almost done. I moved it up into the front garden area and the hens are having a great time scratching around thru the raised planter beds.
The Mercedes is ready to go except for the battery not keeping a charge very well. If I use jumper cables to start it, it will restart fine as long as it doesn't set too long before attempting to restart. Otherwise it will only groan and click. Will have to buy a new one before the trip. Either Costco or Walmart. Diesel vehicles require a much more powerful battery than the standard vehicle. So, more expensive. Sure don't want to have battery problems twenty miles outside of Baker or Primm. I got the first hint of battery problems the day I was trying to leave for Calif. from Rachel's parking lot on my last visit. Heidi had to help jump-start my car in the parking lot with her truck. Twice.
There is a rain storm here for the next 3 - 4 days. Temps are in the 30s to 40s.
Gma seems a bit sad that I'm leaving. She is very happy every time she comes home and finds me still here. The other women at her work are either sick or visiting with family so Gma is expected to fill in for them and make sure the DR's office runs smoothly. She is working every day and the days are long. Normally there are 3 to 4 women in the office. Today they are down to one other lady besides Gma and the other lady is complaining about her husband being sick and she is not feeling well. Gma is as stable as a rock, always reliable and faithful. She is a special and a great woman. She certainly deserves many blessings now and in the hereafter. We attended church at her ward on Christmas Day.
Well, better go. Things to do and I have to go to Sonora to see where my money is before I can even leave for UT.
Love you, (and your sisters)

dAd

Christmas of Long Ago...

2010-12-01T02:30:00.000-08:00

It was 1989.

Mom was Primary President and in charge of putting together a play for the Primary kids to perform at some sort of week-night get together at the chapel. The play was called something like "Mrs Claus Saves Christmas" - as I recall, Santa was under the weather and Mrs Claus had to pull it all together for him at the last minute. Now, Rex as Santa actually fell asleep on stage during the performance. He didn't have any lines except at the very beginning and didn't have any reason to leave the chair on the stage where he sat. So, Rex McBride slept through the entire performance. Good times!

The Best Teacher I Ever Had...

2010-11-28T19:37:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, I was called as a teacher in the Relief Society at church. I wish I could call Dad and ask his advice in most of my lessons that I've taught, but I know he is proud of me for my efforts and for what I'm learning in this calling. Coincidentally, Grandma McBride has the exact same calling in her ward.

I taught the lesson today. The topic was on teaching. I read the lesson through for the first time and thought about what a hard topic this would be. It was a great topic to teach to teachers, but not to teach to the "students" of Relief Society. But after some thoughtful prayer, I realized that everyone is in some way a teacher. You teach your children, your neighbors, your co-workers - just by the example you set. You can even teach your parents, siblings, and friends. So, once I realized that we are all teachers, the lesson became so much easier to work with.

During the lesson, I felt prompted to tell of a memory I have of Dad, even though it wasn't in my lesson outline.

I remember on our "Best Vacation Ever" trip to Tombstone, AZ, we were stopped at a small gas station on the outskirts of Lake Havasu City. We saw a woman in raggy clothing searching through the garbage for cans. Dad gathered up some canned goods for her and without hesitation, gave her a few dollars. I've always remembered that. The part of the story that I don't like to share though, is that I had a few dollars in my pocket too. I thought about handing that to my dad to give to the woman. But I hesitated. I wanted to spend my money on myself. I've always remembered that hesitation and the sorrow that I felt for being so unwilling to give. I will never forget that feeling and I try so hard now to share my good fortune with others as they need.

I'm so thankful for the example Dad set for me. I'm proud to be his daughter and I'm happy to do my best to be an example for my children. I hope that one day, they too can have enough charity and compassion to act on their promptings.

I'm so thankful for my family and extended family and how we teach and learn from each other.

Dear 9th Ward Friends,

2010-09-26T10:00:00.000-07:00

Autumn 2009

Dear 9th Ward friends,

Thank you for all of your sweet words and sincere prayers regarding our father and his passing. We enjoyed seeing your faces again at his memorial service. You have given us much warmth and friendship throughout the years. We just wanted to let you know that your love extends beyond the 9^th Ward to St. George, Utah and Las Vegas, Nevada. We cherish our fond memories as children in the Modesto 9^th Ward.

We thank you for supporting our father in his most difficult medical situations and keeping him cheerful when he was lonely. You were his family when we were not near. In that thought, we hope this message comforts you with the loss of your friend and brother.

A personal message from Rachel: Modesto 9^th Ward has always been home. Dad would always keep me updated on who got married, who was called on a mission, who had a baby, who got what calling, who had a van for sale. Dad’s fond friendships turned into us having several extra “uncles”. Thank you all so much for your lasting friendships over the years and your sincere sympathy and goodwill in these last long months. Dad loved the 9^th Ward so much and had the highest respect for all the members. His example to me of missionary work, service to those in need, and loyalty to friends has made a lasting impact.

A personal message from Aubrey: In the past few years, Dad started to include a saying in most of our phone conversations. He’d emphatically say, “Do Your Best”. In spring of this year, Dad went into end-stage cancer and those words became more special to me and seemed to echo in my mind. All he really wanted me to do was my best. I will do just that in memory of him. Dad was admittedly imperfect, yet I noticed a softness about him during a last visit to Sonora with my sisters. Until the viewing, I thought this softness was just the frailness of his frame. When I looked at him for the last time I finally realized what I was seeing. I saw the image of the Savior in Dad’s countenance. By the end of his life, he had done his very best and I am so glad I was able to see that.

A personal message from Heidi: I miss my Dad so much. He was a wonderful man, an extremely talented artist, a hilarious story teller, a wonderful friend, and an amazing father. I was truly blessed to have a father and friend like him. I will ALWAYS miss him everyday.

We apologize for not writing to each of you individually. You were his dearest friends and a great source of his strength. Thank you for all of the dinners you made for or invited him to, the needed priesthood blessings given, fasts on his behalf, the “parking lot interviews” and chats, the spirit of youth the Boy Scouts gave him, and the countless other favors. We know that helped Dad get through some hard times.

We will treasure the memories we have of Dad. If you have any memories or pictures you would like to share with us please email: idispatch4911@gmail.com, aubreyjune@gmail.com, heidizzle@hotmail.com. Also, please visit RexMcBride.com to add photos, stories, and information.

Our most sincere thanks,

The McBride Girls

Our Daddy & Grump-Pa Rex

2010-09-21T19:27:00.000-07:00

Sunday, September 26th

marks the one year anniversary

of Rex's passing.

Please keep his loved ones in your thoughts.

Rex's Version of Success, 2003

2010-09-04T22:19:00.000-07:00

Sent:	Sat 4/19/03 1:34 PM
To:	idispatch4911

Cool,
Maybe we will have to take the boat out for a spin and some fishing if the weather is pleasant. Bring your 'boomstick' and we'll "drill some holes" at the range, the indoor one on Yosemite Ave. here in Motown and the Gun Club range in Jamestown.

I sure feel better after a good nights sleep. Just slept until I wanted to get up. Woke once during the night and took a pill then went back to sleep. Refreshed today. Usually have more restless nights than last night. Am starting the process of scaling back about 25% on my meds. I am really getting tired of basing how much work I can do on the pill intake. Have done this before. I know when I have reached the point to where I'm overdoing the work based on the meds helping me to feel I can do more work. It can become an ever increasing cycle of pill taking, so time to scale back.

Rest more. After all, I'm not in my 20's anymore and can't work at the pace of a 20 or 30 year old.

The theory for becoming a success is "Find a NEED and fill it".
What I need to do is hire Mexicans. haha. That is what everybody else that is really making it in this business is doing. Housing is certainly a "need". Here is the formula that is working for the construction industry :

1. Hire truckloads of Mexican or any cheap labor to do the work. Doesn't matter what 10 to 15% of the work looks like or how badly it is done, just keep cranking it out. This small percentage of loose ends created by the cheap labor will be dealt with by step 2:

2. Hire a nucleus of 'key' guys, good at problem solving. One guy, particularly good at Supervising/Delegating. A Leader. Under this 'leader' there is a need for someone that can be creative enough to fix the screw ups the 'cheap labor' created. This creative position may be 1 to 3 individuals, maybe each with their own specialties. Pay these 'key' guys more to keep them around and happy. These guys are also the eyes and ears for the Leader. There needs to be a loyalty within this nucleus.

3. Turn out a product that meets the minimum acceptable standards for the industry you are involved in. Always make sure your product hovers around these minimum standards. No flashes of brilliant ingenuity accepted unless it can be cashed in on somehow thru a marketing campaign. Remember ... the bottom line.

4. Have a willing, sheep-like people with tolerable credit ratings and an unquenchable desire to feed their own egos and every whim with 'the latest' or the newest' fad or fashion. They want to show off their acquired possessions to their envious friends and neighbors/co-workers. In their own minds, they must 'feel' as if they are doing better everyday. They must get more, every day, every paycheck. More stuff. Newer stuff. Once acquired, there is the need to 'store' this new stuff.

This is easily resolved by upgrading one's housing situation. What is needed is more space. Buying homes with three car garages and extra bedrooms can resolve the dilemma. This added square footage can be turned into guest rooms, media/music rooms, hobby rooms, sitting rooms, reading rooms, display rooms, etc.

In earlier times, say 50, 100 or 200 years ago, this country's backbone was the family. The big family. In a one or two room house. The living, sleeping and dining quarters were all found within the same square footage. Multipurpose rooms. Great families with large numbers of children were raised without the benefit of each having their own room or 'space'. They learned to share because it was essential. There was no other way.

Today, if people would only cut down on the number of children they feel they need, to have a 'complete family'. Hey, that also frees up a room for 'stuff'. If there is a void felt by not having that one additional child, this can be rectified by the addition of a pet. Usually a dog. These animals tend to be interactive with the humans in the house. They can sometimes be trained to not damage too many of the acquired items that are in storage or on display. They tend to require less maintenance than a child and are less costly. They are not inexpensive, just cost less to maintain than a child.

Goldfish and cats are sometimes chosen as the preferred pet. These are much less interactive. Personally, I found that watching goldfish for a few minutes after a crazy day to be therapeutic.

It is not known why people have cats for pets. Having had the experience of being a husband and father for about 16 years, I saw no need to have a pet who also ignored me.

Whoa, sorry Rachel. I went thru a stream of consciousness thing.... This could be an essay with more work on it.

Love dAd

Essay by Rex: Confirming Lymphoma & Celebrating with KFC

2010-08-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

My eyes were beginning to blur while looking at a quarterly magazine in the waiting room. It said it was sent exclusively to purchasers of new Jaguar automobiles. Obviously, my doctor was either a lover of luxury cars or managed to get a cool mag by mistake. Advertisements were for Rolex watches and many other types of finery that good incomes could bring. Don't get me wrong, I was not envious of that sort of thing. I don't begrudge the doctor being rewarded for all the years he invested in his education. He is a soft spoken, kind and compassionate man. It just seemed a bit funny to have such a magazine placed in with tattered copies of People and Newsweek.

I was going to find out the results of all those tests I had been having since late August. Even before the surgery by Dr. Gray in September of this year, I knew already in my heart and head. It had come back. Or, never really left. But I had not had much trouble for almost 7 years.

Dr. Di removed some in 1990. Another doctor removed more in an office procedure after that. Then in 1995, Dr. Goodman had me under the knife twice within weeks when lab results got "ugly". It took months to recover physically from those last two. Financially, ...well, I had been torpedoed, amidships.

So, when the post surgery lab reports came back from Stanford recently, Dr. Yee, my primary care physician personally called me 6:40 PM on a Friday to say he was referring me to an Oncologist, "A really good one.", in Stockton. 50 minutes away. He said the Oncologist's office would call me on Monday morning to set up an appointment. Dr. Yee soberly said, "You HAVE to go."

So, here I was in the waiting room for the 3rd time, tests all done, waiting to hear just where I stood. Each of my visits here had impressed on me that I was no longer in the minor leagues of ailments. There were some really sick people in this room. Many were wearing hats or wigs to hide hairless heads. Some were in wheelchairs and no one seemed very energetic. Even the family members accompanying these cancer patients seemed tired. Weighted down from the burden this disease places upon everyone close to it.

As tired as I was, I felt as if I didn't belong here. If this were a scene from a bad martial arts movie with a plot more warped than usual, I could single-handedly take on all 20 to 30 people in the room, at once. Not like the carefully choreographed scenes where only one attacker approaches the good guy at a time. Heck, I was Hercules compared to anyone here.

When she walked in the front door to the waiting room at Dr. Medhi's Oncology Clinic, my first impression was of a very sick middle aged woman. Quite attractive in her day, I thought. Whispy, thinning blonde/gray colored hair, barely covering the sides of her head. On top was a knitted cap, haphazardly placed as if she had been involved in a snowball fight at a family trip to the snow. The big coat, sweat pants and fuzzy booties added to the look of someone trying to keep warm in inclement weather. That it was a sunny, warm, autumn day where short sleeve shirts and sunglasses were more the norm seemed completely lost to her. Darkness under her eyes and her fragile almost see-thru facial skin reminded me of looking at a marble statue. She had a clear plastic tube near her nose hooked around her ears. She was pulling a green oxygen bottle behind her on wheels. There seemed to be a defiant courage in her struggle to pull the small tank over to a seat. She was going to do everything for herself as long as she could. She was followed by another woman in her late 50's and a handsome, slightly overweight but robust man in his mid 30's wearing Levi's 501s and a golf shirt.

This trio's entrance caused me to lose interest in the magazine. The interaction between them as they sat, kept my attention. The man was very kind and attentive, the 50ish woman got a paper cup of water for the ill woman who appeared to have an almost unquenchable thirst. Then it hit me. The woman on oxygen wasn't middle-aged at all. More like, early to mid 30's. The man was her husband. The 50ish woman, was most likely there to help her own daughter who was, in my opinion, not long for this world. She still was beautiful, but the cancer was taking it's toll.
I didn't know if there were any, but I began to think of the possibility of their children being watched by a close friend or family member while Mommy went to the Dr. with Daddy and Grandma.

I couldn't help it, but as I sat watching this loving couple chat, my eyes watered up. A lump grew in my throat. I was looking at a married couple on a journey where they soon would part and go separate ways. One would journey into the unknown, the other left behind pondering life and it's meaning. Perhaps soon, he would have to explain to little curly haired, big eyed children that Mommy still loves them even though she's no longer there. My observation of the scene was one of those moments when you ask "why" and consider the eternities.

My name was called and I got up and went thru the door, following the nurse who three weeks earlier had raised and dashed my hopes to avoid a painful procedure called a bone marrow biopsy. That day, she was looking for something in all the cabinets of the room I was in. She said,"This may be your lucky day. I can't find the needles." Dr. Medhi told me it would be an unpleasant experience. For 3 weeks I considered showing up all 'liquored up' but what good would that do? The nurse said "Oh, here they are." and plunked down a big plastic package on the tray. I stared at the hardware she had just exposed. I asked her,"When do they stop calling them needles and start calling them PIPE?" I had daintier looking tools in my carpenter's tool box. He was right about it being unpleasant.

Dr. Medhi came in and asked me about whether I'd had one particular test. Yes. He called on the phone about something in the CT scan. He sat and said it was confirmed that I had Lymphoma. Fortunately, a low grade or slow growing type. Most likely could be kept under control with radiation and occasional surgery. I have some type of growth on one kidney and another lymph node in the neck which need attention. Treatment will be radiation every day for 4 weeks. A three month check up will see if there is any change. Chemotherapy will be saved for more aggressive treatment later, if necessary. He said if I had to get cancer, this was the type to have. We both smiled. I knew that many prayers were answered. Frankly, I asked for one blessing prior to the September surgery. I suggested to those administering it that I knew they had great faith, but please to not go overboard on what was said in the blessing itself. I was NOT interested in living to be 120 years old.

Heavenly Father has blessed the medical profession to know and understand that treatment of this ugly disease should be carefully measured and monitored. I am thinking of all those people in years past who were subjected to surgery, radiation and chemotherapy in doses where the proper amounts were unknown. Because of their suffering, and the good men who become doctors with a desire to heal and "do no harm" had to do just a little harm to fine tune their research.

I left the Clinic that day greatly relieved that although my future health concerns may not always be pleasant, most likely my condition will not shift gears into something faster. I drove back to Modesto and pulled into a KFC for a big Pepsi and a bucket of chicken to celebrate. Didn't have someone to immediately share my good news with in person but I also didn't have to face what that young couple was staring in the face either. I just hope they were able to smile with Dr. Medhi that day too. I sense that somehow their courage made them smile.

Chemo Rex

2010-07-29T17:41:00.001-07:00


	Mom always said to eat my vegetables... I didn't listen.

Date: Mon, 14 Jun 2004 20:59:04 -0800

Things That Remind Me...

2010-07-13T22:58:00.000-07:00

Old Junky Tools

Of course, he'd turn the channel if it were on anything but this...

Harbor Freight Tools - so he could buy tools cheap since others got stolen

He was never good at cards, but would play Uno -
He always said that he couldn't shuffle with only 8 fingers

Once he found #10 cans of pudding, he wanted to stock up!

Even his grand daughters remember his food powder

He loved to go to antique stores and spend hours looking

Veggie gardens

Old work boots

Chinese Buffets

Oh, his wardrobe! He only wanted to wear one color at a time:
tan shirt and tan pants, next day was blue shirt and blue pants

Bit O Honey candy from the Dollar Store

Custom fitted knee brace

No one will ever forget all the VANS

Dutch Oven Cooking - biscuits were a specialty

Email Forward from Rex: Our Flag!

2010-07-01T21:53:00.000-07:00

Our Flag!
United States Flag Folding
Correct Procedure.

Do You Know?

Do you know that at military funerals, the 21-gun salute stands for the
sum of the numbers in the year 1776?

Have you ever noticed the honor guard pays meticulous
attention to correctly folding the American flag 13 times? You
probably thought it was to symbolize the original 13 colonies, but we
learn something new every day!
The 1st fold of our flag is a symbol of life.

The 2nd fold is a symbol of our belief in eternal life.

The 3rd fold is made in honor and remembrance
of the veterans departing our ranks who gave a portion of their lives
for the defense of our country to attain peace throughout the world.

The 4th fold represents our weaker nature, for
as American citizens trusting in God, it is to Him we turn in times of
peace as well as in time of war for His divine guidance.

The 5th fold is a tribute to our country, for in the
words of Stephen Decatur, "Our Country, in dealing with other
countries, may she always be right; but it is still our country, right
or wrong.

The 6th fold is for where our hearts lie. It is with our
heart that We pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States Of
America, and the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God,
indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all.

The 7th fold is a tribute to our Armed Forces, for it is
through the Armed Forces that we protect our country and our flag
against all her enemies, whether they be found within or without the
boundaries of our republic.

The 8th fold is a tribute to the one who entered into the
valley of the shadow of death, that we might see the light of day.

The 9th fold is a tribute to womanhood, and
Mothers. For it has been through their faith, their love, loyalty and
devotion that the character of the men and women who have made this
country great has been molded.

The 10th fold is a tribute to the father, for he, too,
has given his sons and daughters for the defense of our country since
they were first born.

The 11th fold represents the lower portion of the seal of
King David and King Solomon and glorifies in the Hebrews eyes, the God
of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

The 12th fold represents an emblem of eternity and
glorifies, in the Christians eyes, God the Father, the Son and Holy
Spirit.

The 13th fold, or when the flag is completely folded, the
stars are uppermost reminding us of our nations motto, "In God We
Trust."

After the flag is completely folded and tucked in, it
takes on the appearance of a cocked hat, ever reminding us of the
soldiers who served under General George Washington, and the Sailors
and Marines who served under Captain John Paul Jones, who were
followed by their comrades and shipmates in the Armed Forces of the
United States, preserving for us the rights, privileges and freedoms
we enjoy today.

There are some traditions and ways of doing
things that have deep meaning. In the future, you'll see flags folded
and now you will know why.

Share this with the children you
love and all others who love the symbol of "Liberty and
Freedom"

Happy Birthday Rex!

2010-06-29T07:55:00.000-07:00

Happy Dad's Day

2010-06-20T15:04:00.000-07:00

We love you so much, Dad.

As A Writer: A Chemo Update (September 2004)

2010-06-04T21:47:00.000-07:00

Date: Fri, 17 Sep 2004 03:22:58 -0400
Subject: An update...

When we agree to sign a contract to purchase a home, we know that we will be making a payment every month of every year for 20, 30 or more years. That's if we don't fiddle with things. You know what I mean. Refinancing just to bail our butts out of a self inflicted mess.

Similarly, purchasing a vehicle, new or used, requires us to stick our necks out, or exercise our faith in our future ... and commit for a prescribed period of time to pay incrementally for the use of a source of transportation. If you read the fine print carefully, for the most part, it is "cut and dried". The quality of the vehicle you picked and whether it will last the entire contract is where your neck's vulnerability and your faith ... face off with each other.

When it comes to ongoing medical care there appears to be no agreements or contracts where one feels as if there is guaranteed progress being made towards an end.

After five chemo treatments, I kept thinking I was near the end of treatments just because the doctor says there would be 6 treatments. Not so.

Once I had experienced one complete cycle of outpatient chemo and it's side effects, earlier this summer, I figured I could handle it. To me, a complete cycle is from the start of the treatment (whether a day or a series of days) all the way to just before the next "start" of a treatment. The period of time right after being released from the clinic as an outpatient (3 to 6 hours of treatment) or ... the hospital as an inpatient (4 to 6 days of treatment) can be from two to three weeks before another treatment is scheduled. At least mine is.

This time period is when the side effects make their presence known. The list of possible side effects is almost too long to type so I won't. Extreme fatigue is the most notable ... unless you are experiencing nausea. Then I guess nausea would certainly be more in the forefront of one's mind. Some of the drugs suggest side effects of constipation and diarrhea. How those two can be listed in the same sentence was a puzzle to me until I had the experience. Like the swinging of a pendulum, the two side effects ravage me for days, every cycle. Toss in the aforementioned fatigue..., some "long bone pain" from the over workings of an injected drug administered to stimulate the bone marrow to speed up blood manufacturing to combat anemia..., shortness of breath, the heart pounding for no reason, and the fact that every single little "ouchy" tends to get infected, starts to add up. Every day becomes a swim in Lake "Me".

I did realize there would be accumulative effects and they would have to be dealt with. It seems that just before another treatment, I tend to feel at my best. Not my very best but the best I can expect. The effects of radiation or chemotherapy tend to leave one feeling a bit worse than the last cycle. I noticed this each time but all in all, I felt I was up to it by the time the next treatment was scheduled.

But, believe me, I don't take it lightly. There is a degree of fear, and trying to muster the courage to go in for treatment is difficult when there is a certainty of experiencing fatigue, nausea and pain for days at a time. Tears might be shed. There is a feeling of life not being fair.

When there is a change in the course of treatment, it leaves you wondering. Half way through my series of chemo treatments the doctor suddenly changed my schedule from this nice outpatient series of treatments ... to ones which required me to spend days in a hospital, enduring round the clock administering of drugs and other "pokings and proddings" usually inflicted upon me by nurses.

Nurses... ahhh! Angels of Mercy? ... or Inflictors of Torment. Definitely their services are necessary. All I know is there are three shifts of them coming to the hospital, showing up like fresh troops. Before the tired troops pass the baton on to the next shift, they are comparing notes called 'taking report'. As a patient, one does not get to refresh much. You tend to feel as though you are "pinned down" in a firefight. There is always one coming in, moving the curtains, asking too many questions, disturbing my erratic sleep or my attempts at bathing or toiletries.

At 11 PM and 1 AM I'm awakened to be given pills. At 3 AM someone from the lab comes in to draw blood. I'm too tired to ask why they want to draw a sample from each arm. Isn't it all the same? It makes no sense and seems to be a painful dream but in the morning there will be more bandages on each arm.

They want to weigh you at 4 AM and when I protest that I will still weigh the same at 8 AM they just roll their eyes, holding the scale in front of me which looks more like a big handtruck with a digital readout on it. Just after drifting off again another nurse-type will come in and check my blood pressure and temp.

They will bring you food, then ask why you didn't eat it. They will ask why you haven't "peed" enough and why you aren't drinking enough. I was asked if I'd "pooped", "poo-pooed", "had a movement", or, "moved my bowels" at least once a day by various nurses. Imagine one of them opening the bathroom door just as you've settled onto the throne, attempting to relax a bit. Suddenly seeing a 350 LB nurse at that indelicate moment does nothing to aid in the attempt. They have free reign and appear to be calloused to private moments.

When an even larger nurse comes to your bedside, you start to get the impression that they find new nurses at the Stockton shipyards and that that there is an over abundance of stevedores, or Lumpers, as they are known in the trucking industry.

When she asks if I'd like to get cleaned up, I hesitate. Mostly because I was trying to read what her tattoo said. When she offers to wash my back, I'm too afraid to say anything to stir her to anger. I submit, fearful that she is still so fresh off the docks she may treat my tender backside like a big crate on the dock needing to be moved, have some paint stripped or a sticker removed.

Then occasionally there is the nurse ... fresh off the banana boat. Communication, no matter how simple, is a problem. I worry about them reading things correctly. A young Hispanic guy, Raymundo, comes in to ask me some questions. He's dressed like a male nurse and his credit card sized name tag offers enough info that he has earned some capital letters to be placed after his name. I think about how hard or easy it is to get a fake name tag with fake letters after the name. It's not hard to picture him wearing a huge Raiders jersey and a bandana, short pants that end at the calf and some $200 sport shoes. There is a whole list of things that the hospital wants to know about me and my medical history and Raymundo is here to extract it from me, one way or another.

Raymundo is new to America or at least the English speaking North American continent. He is probably as articulate in English as I was in high school Spanish, where I was very fortunate that the Spanish teacher, who was also my baseball coach gave me a token C grade inspite of the fact I probably didn't deserve it. It was the only way the teacher could keep me on the team. He really needed a third baseman who could also pitch middle relief, if necessary and by the end of the season was batting .411.

Anyway, Raymundo kept stumbling over the words, pronouncing (or "slaughtering" is another word that comes to mind) this list of medical history terms. Did I wear eye glasses? Did I wear contact lenses? Dentures? Pacemaker? Any major surgeries? All said with a heavy, broken accent. It reached it's peak when he was asking me about my hair piece. Almost with the frustration of someone attempting to use bad sign language, I was telling him my hair was gone because of the chemotherapy and I could grow a fine head of hair normally. Again he asks about a hair piece. Again I try to explain about chemo. After he asks for a third time I realized he was asking about ... "HERPES". Sadly, by the time Raymundo is done asking (or axxing) me the list, my blood pressure has risen and I'd like to throw him out of the room.

My most recent stay in the hospital started the day after Labor Day. I was expecting to stay for 6 days, just like the last time, which would have kept me there until that Sunday evening. I was admitted at 2 PM and was not even hooked up to any drug until 9 PM. Seven wasted hours. They didn't even send in my dinner. Missing a hospital meal is something to feel fortunate about, so no great loss but I'll never get that seven hours back.

Wednesday evening until Friday afternoon was my most nauseating experience yet. There was no eating during those days and in fact the very smell of food could set me off. As he does every day I'm in, this Friday afternoon Dr. Mehdi came in to see me. He said there was no reason to stay another day and I could be released that day as long as I took the last of my chemo in pill form. I was thrilled but as we talked I mentioned this being my last treatment.

He said," Oh no, my friend. You have many treatments ahead of you." I was stunned. Many? How many? I thought there were going to be six. I distinctly heard the number six.

He said we could talk more about it at the next office visit which we set up for the following Wednesday. He said we'd also talk about the transplant.

"TRANSPLANT?!?!' I asked. My mind races to think about which organ might be aching and therefore failing. Kidneys? Liver? The side effects info even mentioned heart damage from the drugs.

"Yes. Haven't I mentioned the transplant?" He asked. We discussed bone marrow transplants for just a minute.

The entire weekend, my imagination was going crazy about bone marrow transplants. I'd had a bone marrow biopsy that I'll never forget. My family and many friends all were more than willing to offer themselves for such a procedure in my behalf.

Wednesday, Dr. Mehdi explained that I'd be most likely going to Stanford or UC San Francisco for the transplant(s), or at least these institutions would be involved somehow.

I said there was a long line of family and friends willing to submit to a donor program. He said that was not exactly what was in mind. He said the problem with others donating to someone in my condition is that 3 out of 10 recipients of such donations are dead within a month. Not the donors, the recipient. That's not very acceptable numbers to me.

Dr. Mehdi said we'd be trying a "RESCUE" of my own bone marrow which would be removed and cleaned. Then I would receive very heavy doses of chemo in an attempt to kill all my existing bone marrow. Then my own, now "cleaned" bone marrow would be transplanted back into me. Hmmm.

I asked how good the process was of "cleaning" my already infected bone marrow. I believe he said it was 'pretty good'. I can't remember his exact word. I wish I could.

Dr. Mehdi scheduled another dose of outpatient chemo at his clinic for 8:30 AM Monday the 27th of Sept. Then the next day, the 28th I enter the hospital for the remainder of the week. More good food ... sassy nurses ... hospital roommates ... and memories.

I haven't mentioned the people that I share the room with. No matter how bad I have felt during my stays at St. Joseph's in Stockton. Whether it be late at night, midday, or in the wee hours of the morning. Hearing the moans and groans of my roommates helps me to realize that no matter how I feel, at least I don't sound as bad as things are in the next bed. For that, I am grateful.

Apparently, in the Grand Scheme of Things... I am supposed to be learning something during this ordeal. Being humbled for some as yet unknown reason. Maybe so I can have greater insight and compassion into...uh, maybe the suffering of others? I don't know that I am really learning any great, deep, secret of the universe type thing yet. No great promptings except to maybe get my affairs in order. Make another hard run at my genealogy. Have another talk with the non LDS members of my family. Squeeze in another trip in between treatments to see my kids.

I will say I have managed to cultivate an incredible assortment of supportive friends over the years. Many have done more for me than I can ever repay. For this I feel very blessed.

Sorry I just burned up the last 15 minutes for you. Have a great day and hug your family. Do something fun with them this weekend.

Rex

I think Dad would have liked this...

2010-06-01T10:08:00.000-07:00

The Elders Quorum Needs Their Own....

Pine Wood Derby

Rex Liked: Meridian Magazine Article, August 2005

2010-05-30T09:53:00.000-07:00

Click here: Meridian Magazine :: Articles : Making the Grade: Study Pointers for LDS Students

Dear Girls,
I thought that this guys approach to "learning" was very interesting. His story about being just an average student in high school rang a bell with me.

I know my mind is capable of much more than I make it do.

His story is encouraging that I can improve my mind and my way of learning and digesting knowledge.

There are 4 or 5 more parts to this article which will be on this website over the next few days. I hope this strikes you as something worth pursuing and looking into. At age 51 I see how much more I could have done (or learned) if I had just attempted to stretch myself. I also see that those who learn how to "learn", end up making more money and that as you well know, is BETTER than making or having less money. Knowledge opens more opportunities, for sure.

D&C 130:18 - Whatever principle of intelligence we attain unto in this life, it will rise with us in the resurrection.
v.19 - And if a person gains more knowledge and intelligence in this life through his diligence and obedience than another, he will have so much the advantage in the world to come.
v.20 and 21 are also very interesting.

I love you girls more than you will ever know,

dAd

Rex the Pack-Rat: Yahoo Answers

2010-05-24T09:23:00.000-07:00

Question asked: What foods should I get rid of in a pantry moth infestation?

Answer by McBrex:

Sometimes, the idea of throwing otherwise usable food away seems wasteful. Especially if you are looking at large quantities. You certainly do need to get things under control. After the cleaning of the cabinetry, I've had good luck with re-packaging the items then freezing for fairly long periods of time in the deep freeze. If there's room, that is. The freezing process will end most life cycles. Gross as it may seem, you can still use many grain based products unless you allow the "Princess Factor" to stay in your head. If you are too queasy about it and the idea of minor issues with insects being in your food is repulsive, that's your call. There are some things I'll just decide I can tolerate. But then I'm a bachelor. There's probably impurities or bugs in it we couldn't see anyway when we brought it home from the store.

Rex the Scout: November 2005

2010-05-21T09:46:00.000-07:00

Sent: Sat 11/12/05 1:59 PM
To: idispatch4911

Rado, Seeing your California pix brought back memories of a fun few days. Just wasn't long enough for me.

We (Rick F., Floyd S., Craig E. and I) took the Scouts and our bikes to San Francisco. The Tiberon Ferry floated us over to Angel Island where we rode the bikes around the island, about a 4 or 5 mile loop. It's an old military location from the beginning of the Civil War. Now it's a state park. Floyd and I pushed our bikes about a 1/3 of the way. I took some pictures on a funky throw-away camera. Haven't taken the whole roll yet. These cameras are a big disappointment after using digital stuff.

Craig pedaled the entire ride on a 3 speed bike! He has been using a exercycle in his house daily. Rick is 47, Floyd is 47, Craig is 48... and my excuse is that I'm 51! I also used the "cancer-death-bed" excuse too, ha!

This next weekend the Scouts are going on a 15 mile bike ride/campout. We'll camp at Caswell State Park in Ripon and ride our bikes from there to Modesto (Dale Rd. Chapel). Early next month we'll try crabbing at Dillon Beach if I have my steering on the boat fixed. Have all the parts, just need to spend the time now that my energy is coming back a little.

I'm here at Gma's and was going to change a few tires but gave it up. I miscalculated on tire size for the Mercedes. Hope things are going well for you and Heidi.

Love, dAd

Essay by Rex: August 2004

2010-05-20T12:46:00.000-07:00

The Lumps...

I first noticed it in the shower in 1993 while performing the normal exploratory functions with a sudsy washcloth and a spray of water. That walnut sized lump in the right armpit was an instant attention getter. I knew it was more than an ingrown hair because it appeared to be deeper, larger and closer to the upper ribcage. It was firm and there was no soreness. It was something that I'd keep track of almost subconsciously afterwards like one might keep checking a chipped tooth or an ugly hair growing out of a mole on one's face.

I even had Hurricane feel the lump. Hey, she was a registered nurse and certainly more familiar with the anatomy than I was. For all I knew it was a collection of old pizza stored in a humongous fat cell. Her advice was to have a doctor check it out. Good advice from someone who hadn't as yet earned the nickname I would later give her.

My visit with the surgeon, who was also head of the large medical group next to the large medical center in town was less than I expected. A quick exam by him and he said I shouldn't worry about it. If it bothered me, he was willing to remove it. At the time I did not see it as a threat although I was having some strength, muscle control and numbness problems with that arm and shoulder. Two years later, in 1995, the two symptoms would be linked by two surgeries performed within 3 weeks of each other. That first surgeon's casual lack of concern for the lump would become a costly oversight. To me, not him.

Anyway, I figured if he wasn't worried, then I shouldn't be worried. I equated it with me being at his house on a home repair call. If I advised him to get the dry rot fixed ... he would consider it. If I said not to worry, that it appeared to be dormant or already treated and under control somehow, then maybe he wouldn't worry. ( Maybe the analogy doesn't work but I tried.)

Note: I don't mean for this to be a "lump by lump" description of my medical history ... like a sports announcer describes the back and forth pounding two boxers dish out on each other. I really am trying to set up an experience that took place last year which rattled my comfort zones and someone else's.

During 2001, another lump started ... in my throat this time, below the jaw line, left side. Pea sized at first, I grew a beard to hide it as it got visibly noticeable. Dumb, You say? You're probably right.

There was no money for health insurance as I was dealing with the District Attorney's Family Support Division office who didn't like deadbeats to get behind in child support. Stiff penalties are meted out to those who mock the system or genuinely don't have the kind of money coming in to support two separate households. I know this through experience.

The summer of 2002 my employer offered me medical coverage which I jumped at. After locating a good primary care physician (PCP) that autumn, I was set up with a surgeon to do a biopsy, labs and eventually my PCP referred me to the oncologist. Radiation followed over the holidays of 2002/2003. Then it was "sit and wait" to see if the diagnosed lymphoma would respond.

As you might imagine, I had by this time begun to equate "lumps" as being ... problematic, ...prone to painful procedures ... and costly. I tried to be aware of any new lumps that might show up. Last year one did and I was not thrilled with it's location.

Setting up an appointment with one's PCP isn't difficult until the young lady on the phone starts asking too specific questions about the reason for making the appointment.

"Well, uh, I've located another lump." Now she doesn't know me from any other male caller she's dealt with that day but gives me a day and time.

Once in the exam room, days later, the anxiety is ramped up a bit. A nurse takes the vitals and asks what I am seeing the doctor for.

"A lump. I have a history of them."

"Where is it?"

"Uhhh, the...uh... (my high school biology and anatomy terminology is a bit rusty) ...the scrotum."

She makes a note, quickly mentions the doctor will be right in and leaves. I am not anymore comfortable when Dr. Yee comes in, asks the reason for the visit, and asks me to drop my pants to check things out. I jokingly tell him it seems that I have gained another 'family jewel'. The rubber gloves go on and he says that considering my history, this needs to be checked out by a sonogram at the hospital. He would set one up. He asks if I've had a prostate exam lately, plunging me into a near state of panic which I tried not to show.

"Nope. Never had one". I was just about to turn 49.

He said "Let's do it." Apparently I hesitated because he asked if I wanted to think about it a little. I really did want to get the heck out of there but had already passed thru a couple levels of comfort zones. Refusing ... and having to go thru this again just to be probed seemed dumb. After all, I had showered before coming, Mom would be proud that I was wearing clean underwear, and at the moment they were around my ankles anyway ... Go for it.

Assuming the position, I was surprised that there was no foreplay but, in retrospect, didn't know what foreplay might consist of during such a procedure. He said it felt fine. I said that was only his opinion, not mine. He said to be glad he didn't have larger fingers. I was just glad it was over but for the rest of the day it felt like I'd been in to Quik Lube for their $49 oil change and lube job special.

Arriving at the hospital for the sonogram had me a bit stressed. I had also heard the word 'ultrasound'. Someone was gonna be checking out "my boys" with a machine I was unfamiliar with ... and taking pictures besides. Sure, the machine had been rolled around on my wife's belly during pregnancies but that was a much bigger target. The procedure never did show a little guy with a 'johnson' in those pictures. I had fathered all daughters. I was also worried about just how photogenic I might be.

My name was called after signing in and I began following a cute little brunette, 27ish with very long hair, down the halls towards wherever this was going to take place.

"Hi, my name is Kiersten." followed by a bit of small talk. The small talk was hers, not mine. I was busy passing thru mental comfort zones as we walked. Some doctor guy would soon be taking my picture and it wasn't going to be a "glamour shot" either.

She looked at the clipboard and said "Ok, we are going to be taking an ultrasound of your....... skuh......(a pause)... skuh...rotum." All I could say was "You?" Now, if this had been a blind date I'd be thrilled, but it wasn't ... and I wasn't. Apparently she wasn't either.

She was very professional as she reviewed with me the steps of the procedure about to be done, maybe for her own benefit as well as mine. Neither of us really wanted to be there at that moment.

The machine was turned on and there was a blanket of sorts for modesty. She produced some towels and a lubricating gel, warmed for comfort. Awkward attempts were made to let her have the best angle with the handheld scanner being rolled over my privates. My focus was to think very generic thoughts and not react to stimulation. I succeeded in spite of everything mentioned.

After about 10 minutes of searching for the '3rd jewel' she admitted she wasn't having any luck and it wasn't showing up on the monitor. I said it tended to make itself more available when I was standing rather than lying down. This was a problem. She then asked if I "could find it" and help her to locate it. So now my hand, her hand, warm lubricant and a wand thingy was down there. The comfort zones whipped by like traffic signs on a freeway.

Eventually, it appeared on the monitor and she was getting the pictures. She then said a doctor or someone else should look at this. 'No snickering' was a request I thought to myself. She left and soon a tech guy or doctor type with a white smock came in, studied the monitor a couple minutes and said they'd better try to get some color pictures of what they were seeing. I think to myself "they can do that? take color pictures? I couldn't imagine. Maybe I misunderstood. They both left... (for some instamatic film from Walmart perhaps?) Then she came back in to finish up the new series of pictures.

She offered me the towels and apologized for the mess she made. By that time I'd been celibate for almost ten years and I may have forgotten some things. To break the tension ... an "R" rated question popped into my mind. "Did we just have sex?" ...Gosh, I'm glad I didn't ask it out loud.

I've been writing these experiences partly for my own therapeutic reasons, maybe to gripe or to vent. Sometimes to just to enjoy laughs with those who read them. I also wish to offer these experiences to educate readers of the challenges one may go thru in the grind of medical procedures. A diagnosis may take many return trips to a doctor who will order tests before something might be found. Keep after it.

A casual conversation with Craig Ewert once re: 'lumps' and the one he found is something to get checked out. He did and I'm glad for his sake and for that of his family.

My advice is to take any lump you may find or other symptom seriously. Also, in my case a second initial opinion may have saved me a lot of grief or at least gotten me an earlier diagnosis.

Something else which may have aided me and the doctors in finding lumps sooner would be to watch your weight. If you get too portly, the lumps from consuming pizza, burgers, that late night dish of spumoni ice cream ... or even your wife's RS homemaking night inspired good cooking may hide that lump that isn't merely a fatty tissue deposit. (Whew, sorry for the long sentence.)

Now that my diagnosis has been fine tuned a bit from Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma in general to Mantle Cell Lymphoma I told my oldest daughter Rachel just what I had. She did a search on Google and called me back a day later giving me a few details of what it was. She was not very cheery about it but we had a good conversation. One of those daddy/daughter conversations that I cherish. That night I looked at 2 or 3 websites dedicated to MCL. It came close to crushing my positive outlook on the treatments.

My doctor has not mentioned anything like how much time is left but early on he said people live for years with this condition. That would be comforting except for the fact that I already have been living with it for years. More or less since '93. Just where on the timeline am I?

I will say that the treatments are most unpleasant but I can deal with them. The increase of swelling in different areas is distressing. Painful. This disease will eventually get me, I guess. Everyone dies from something. I know that my attitude and the faith and prayers of my friends and family will sustain me for however long I'm supposed to be here. Only Heavenly Father knows how many more years of Scouting I am going to see. Or if I'll live to see grandchildren. How many buckets of KFC I will get to buy or the number of worms I'll drown not catching fish.

I have all the confidence anyone can have in my doctor, Dr. Mehdi. A really great, kind man. Eventually, relying on medicine though, is a bit like relying on "the arm of flesh" isn't it? Any thoughts?

I have not been writing much in the past months. I am not in a concise groove of wordy expression yet. I promise to be more brief. I really need to get back to chronicling all the cranky nurses I get to contend with. All these treatments expose me to plenty. Somehow I just bring it out in nurses. Dr. Mehdi put me in the hospital for 5 days the last week of July. The nurses outvoted him and decided I should leave after 4 days. I couldn't have agreed more.

Rex H. McBride

Sunday, Aug. 8, 2004

Dad's Testimony - Sent May 2005

2010-05-17T10:06:00.000-07:00

Dear Rachel, Aubrey and Heidi,

Hi girls,

It's getting late Sunday evening and I'm pretty tired of deleting junk email.

I just wanted to tell each of you girls before I go into this next 2 months of medical unpleasantness that I really love each of you. You each have talents and strengths I admire. Each of you are good people, fun to be around, with much to offer others. You each are a credit to society and to the McBride and Carson families. I'm proud that each of you is striking out on your own to live life, develop your talents and skills and be more rounded personalities. You'll each have challenges ahead but that's what makes life interesting.

I've often wished we could have grown up closer together, had a more gospel based family life and that we'd have logged many more hours, days and years of experiences together by now. This has been a gnawing regret in my life and really don't know where I could have done things differently under the circumstances we faced (except to have been a better example of what a husband, dad and a priesthood holder should be). I have always wanted to be closer to each of you. You each should have had better. My hope is that what you've been through will not sour you too much as you face the challenges of adulthood. I'm proud that each of you will watch out for each other.

I go into these medical procedures buoyed by the strength I feel from each of you. It may be a bit selfish but I want many more memories with each of you, individually and together. I go into the UC Davis Medical Center willing to face all they can throw at me ... and more, if necessary to be able to see you girls farther into your adult years.

If, though for some reason things don't come out the way we expect, I must say this one thing. There were a couple of things I did correctly in relation to you. Your Mom and I saw to it that you were blessed and given names as infants in the Lord's Church by proper priesthood authority. I entered the waters of baptism with each of you and used my priesthood authority to perform that most sacred of saving ordinances. It is so critically important an ordinance that even Jesus, the most perfect person to ever walk the face of this earth sought out someone with the proper priesthood authority (John the Baptist) and submitted himself to be baptized. Any question or doubt how important the ordinance is?

I laid my hands on each of your heads and confirmed you each members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. You were each given the gift of the Holy Ghost, a gift to use as you see fit. Live by the gospel teachings and the gift will be a great blessing in your lives. Your conscience is the "Light of Christ" mentioned in the scriptures. Ignore it and the gift will fade away little by little. But, if you call upon it, it can be a help and a companion to you in times of making personal decisions or even in times of danger. Nurture it as if you would nurture a seed to grow and it will be a guide and bloom into something of great worth throughout your lives. These ordinances were the best things I could have helped you to experience. They were not gifts I could offer to you myself. I have no power myself except that I was ordained to be able to do these things by the power of the Holy Priesthood.

Heidi mentioned once that she could barely remember the experience of baptism and so felt it had little meaning for her. She has a good point, and it is a fair and understandable observation. I happen to remember mine because I was 14 and a half when I was baptized.

At the age of eight it could be very easy to be just doing what the family considered acceptable. As your parents, we should have helped Heidi (or each of you) to better appreciate what she was going to experience. That she was baptized at 8 years old and the divorce took place when she was 9 years old tells us that other stresses were on each of us and we perhaps "dropped the ball" in guiding her at a critical time.

We all got "beat up" in the divorce in one way or another. It does not however make Heidi's baptism or anyone else's less valid. Each of us still has the responsibility to guard our membership in the Lord's Church by living the Commandments to the best of our ability. We all will stumble and we all can resolve to do better. It's part of the repentence process.

You've heard these words before but they are nevertheless just as true. There is a true church on the earth. A church that is guided and organized the way Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ would have it done. Joseph Smith was, and is the prophet who was the Savior's representantive on earth to do the job.

There is a man living today who serves us as the current prophet for our times. Gordon B. Hinckley.

If we keep an ear to the Lord's prophet today, we can be assured of not being lead astray from the critically important things in this life.

The Book of Mormon is a true record of a people who lived centuries ago on this American continent. It is a record of God's dealings and teachings to these ancient people through prophets who left their words and testimonies for us to consider. If you have any doubt about whether the Book is factual, you are offered a promise and challenge to find out for yourselves of it's truthfulness. I've accepted Moroni's challenge (Moroni 10:3-5) many years ago and know for myself. I may not be the best example of how to live a righteous life but I know it's true.

I challenge each of you girls to become familiar with the Book of Mormon. Take Moroni at his word and find out for yourselves what all the commotion is about. It's either true or it's not. If it's not, if all this true church stuff is a lie, Heavenly Father will warn you off such a crazy book. If it is true, (and you find this out by reading, pondering and praying to find out) it will be the most important discovery in your entire lives.

Love always,

dAd

A Tale of Six Boys

2010-05-14T21:50:00.000-07:00

Hi Girls,
This is an interesting story. Gpa McBride also fought on the island of Iwo Jima in February and March of 1945. The battle lasted about six weeks including the "mop up" (rooting out the last of the Japanese soldiers hidden in tunnels and foxholes after the main fighting was over).
He told me once that he was not close by as the flag was raised because his unit was fighting farther away from that location. But, he told me he was able to look over and see that the flag had been raised. He had been busy doing his own fighting with his unit. He did see it after it was up.
Think about it ... Gpa was in close proximity to one of the most historic events of the battle. He was 19 years old and wouldn't turn 20 for another 7 months. He had already been in the Marines since he was 17.
Both of your Grandfathers experienced amazing challenges as young men.
I know they love each of you in their own way of being able to express those feelings.
I hope that each of you girls know that I love you. You don't know how much that is because it is hard to place a "quantitative value" (ability to measure) of how much I love you. Just know that I do. I wish there was a way to express it in such a way you might be able to see or know.
I'm proud of each of you for your accomplishments. I'm proud of you for your potential. I'm proud of you for just being the enjoyable and interesting personalities that make up your ... "you".

Love you,

dAd

A Tale Of Six Boys

Each year I am hired to go to Washington, DC, with the eighth grade class from Clinton, WI. where I grew up, to videotape their trip. I greatly enjoy visiting our nation's capitol, and each year I take some special memories back with me. This fall's trip was especially memorable.
On the last night of our trip, we stopped at the Iwo Jima memorial. This memorial is the largest bronze statue in the world and depicts one of the most famous photographs in history -- that of the six brave soldiers raising the American Flag at the top of a rocky hill on the island of Iwo Jima, Japan, during WW II.
Over one hundred students and chaperones piled off the buses and headed towards the memorial. I noticed a solitary figure at the base of the statue, and as I got closer he asked, "Where are you guys from?"
I told him that we were from Wisconsin. "Hey, I'm a cheese head, too! Come gather around, Cheese heads, and I will tell you a story."
(James Bradley just happened to be in Washington, DC, to speak at the memorial the following day. He was there that night to say good night to his dad, who has since passed away. He was just about to leave when he saw the buses pull up. I videotaped him as he spoke to us, and received his permission to share what he said from my videotape. It is one thing to tour the incredible monuments filled with history in Washington, D.C., but it is quite another to get the kind of insight we received that night).
When all had gathered around, he reverently began to speak. (Here are his words that night).
"My name is James Bradley and I'm from Antigo, Wisconsin. My dad is on that statue, and I just wrote a book called "Flags of Our Fathers" which is #5 on the New York Times Best Seller list right now. It is the story of the six boys you see behind me.
"Six boys raised the flag. The first guy putting the pole in the ground is Harlon Block. Harlon was an all-state football player. He enlisted in the Marine Corps with all the senior members of his football team. They were off to play another type of game. A game called "War." But it didn't turn out to be a game.
Harlon, at the age of 21, died with his intestines in his hands. I don't say that to gross you out, I say that because there are generals who stand in front of this statue and talk about the glory of war. You guys need to know that most of the boys in Iwo Jima were 17, 18, and 19 years old.
(He pointed to the statue) "You see this next guy? That's Rene Gagnon from New Hampshire. If you took Rene's helmet off at the moment this photo was taken and looked in the webbing of that helmet, you would find a photograph. ...a photograph of his girlfriend. Rene put that in there for protection because he was scared. He was 18 years old. Boys won the battle of Iwo Jima. Boys. Not old men.
"The next guy here, the third guy in this tableau, was Sergeant Mike Strank Mike is my hero. He was the hero of all these guys. They called him the "old man" because he was so old. He was already 24. When Mike would motivate his boys in training camp, he didn't say, 'Let's go kill some Japanese' or 'Let's die for our country.' He knew he was talking to little boys. Instead he would say, 'You do what I say, and I'll get you home to your mothers.'
"The last guy on this side of the statue is Ira Hayes, a Pima Indian from Arizona. Ira Hayes walked off Iwo Jima. He went into the White House with my dad. President Truman told him, 'You're a hero.' He told reporters, 'How can I feel like a hero when 250 of my buddies hit the island with me and only 27 of us walked off alive?' So you take your class at school, 250 of you spending a year together having fun, doing everything together. Then all 250 of you hit the beach, but only 27 of your classmates walk off alive. That was Ira Hayes. He had images of horror in his mind. Ira Hayes died dead drunk, face down at the age of 32. ...ten years after this picture was taken.
"The next guy, going around the statue, is Franklin Sousley from Hilltop, Kentucky. A fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. Franklin died on Iwo Jima at the age of 19. When the telegram came to tell his mother that he was dead, it went to the Hilltop General Store. A barefoot boy ran that telegram up to his mother's farm. The neighbors could hear her scream all night and into the morning. The neighbors lived a quarter of a mile away.
"The next guy, as we continue to go around the statue, is my dad, John Bradley from Antigo, Wisconsin, where I was raised. My dad lived until 1994, but he would never give interviews. When Walter Cronkite's producers, or the New York Times would call, we were trained as little kids to say, 'No, I'm sorry, sir, my dad's not here. He is in Canada fishing. No, there is no phone there, sir. No, we don't know when he is coming back.' My dad never fished or even went to Canada. Usually, he was sitting there right at the table eating his Campbell's soup. But we had to tell the press that he was out fishing. He didn't want to talk to the press.
"You see, my dad didn't see himself as a hero. Everyone thinks these guys are heroes, 'cause they are in a photo and on a monument. My dad knew better. He was a medic. John Bradley from Wisconsin was a caregiver. In Iwo Jima he probably held over 200 boys as they died. And when boys died in Iwo Jima, they writhed and screamed in pain.
"When I was a little boy, my third grade teacher told me that my dad was a hero. When I went home and told my dad that, he looked at me and said, 'I want you always to remember that the heroes of Iwo Jima are the guys who did not come back. Did NOT come back.'
"So that's the story about six nice young boys. Three died on Iwo Jima, and three came back as national heroes. Overall, 7,000 boys died on Iwo Jima in the worst battle in the history of the Marine Corps. My voice is giving out, so I will end here. Thank you for your time."
Suddenly, the monument wasn't just a big old piece of metal with a flag sticking out of the top. It came to life before our eyes with the heartfelt words of a son who did indeed have a father who was a hero. Maybe not a hero for the reasons most people would believe, but a hero nonetheless.
We need to remember that God created this vast and glorious world for us to live in, freely, but also at great sacrifice. Let us never forget from the Revolutionary War to the Gulf War and all the wars in-between that sacrifice was made for our freedom. Remember to pray praises for this great country of ours and also pray for those still in murderous unrest around the world. STOP and THANK GOD for being alive and being free because of someone else's sacrifice.
REMINDER: Every day that you wake up FREE, is a Great Day