Dad would be proud: A Different Kind of Dispatching

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.

Christmas of Long Ago...

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!

Things That Remind Me...

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

Happy Birthday Rex!

To Dadio, Love #3

Dear Dadio,

I’ve been meaning to call. I miss you. It’s been too long since I heard your laugh. I think I forget how it sounds. I miss making you laugh.

I get so mad sometimes, people bringing you up in conversation and reminding me that you’re gone. The pain of remembering you died is unbearable, so I prefer to think, man, it’s been too long since I’ve called Dad. I should call him, pick his brain about something, ask him about that one thing, listen to his stories I’ve heard 1,000 times and still laugh just as hard as I would if it were the first time.

I feel like I’m rambling. I don’t know what else to do. My thoughts aren’t as organized as they would be if this were a paper for school. Emotions flood my heart, knot my stomach and tighten my throat. There is no way to process them.

I miss you every day, every moment. You are always in the back of my mind. I hate when people talk to me about random things or complain to me. I have no patience for it. Oh, I’m sorry you only got a 10% tip off that table…? Poor thing! Well, My Dad died…so shut the Hell up.

It’s hard to concentrate. Everything I do, no matter what I do, my mind is drowned with my memories of your face, your words.

How do you get to the point of acceptance? When will my chest stop feeling like it’s caving in?

Remember the time you painted my toenails? I couldn’t stop giggling. We picked out a couple different colors because you said you were going to make a design. We laughed so hard when it turned out to be sloppy big blobs of color. I sported my Dad pedicure, I was proud of the ugly blobs. They were beautiful to me, and they made me smile.

Remember Van Sushi night? We couldn’t just get the small platter of sushi from Costco. You always went big. We had enough to feed five. We laid the massive tray in the middle of the front seats in the van on that wooden center console thing you painted white. The tray barely fit. I ran into the In n Out and got us a couple sodas. We sat in that parking lot, listening to the AM radio talking, laughing, eating sushi with our hands. When we were both full of VanSushi we looked down and saw that we had barely made a dent in the tray. We drove to Grandma’s that night. You kept falling asleep, I took my eyes off the road a few times to make sure you were still breathing. Remember how we forgot to tell Grandma there was a huge tray of leftover Vansushi in her fridge? She went to open the fridge door the next morning and the oversized tray crashed to the ground. You know how toast always lands butter side down? Well, apparently the same rule applies to Vansushi. Grandma was so mad. Hehehe.

Remember the AM vs FM radio battle? You listened to AM constantly. I was the one that was driving you everywhere, so I finally said to you, “Dad, if I have to listen to Rush, or Savage Nation for one more minute, I’m probably going to drive us off a cliff!” I cracked a smile, so did you, we laughed. After that we alternated days AM, FM, AM, FM. Any time is was my turn, you made fun of the lyrics or asked me if this was REALLY music. I’d tease back telling you that you were just old and didn’t understand. Anytime it was your turn I’d softly sing a song about how I was going to drive off a cliff. It would make us bust up laughing.

I can never find the right words to express my sorrow, anger, sadness.

I used to tell you all the time…I’m 24, you’re 54, that’s too young! Way too young! I told you it wasn’t fair. You agreed. I caught you in a very lucid mood one day, we made Banana splits together, I asked you, “What will I ever do with out you?” You folded your arms, leaned back on the kitchen counter and thought for a moment. You said, “We’re gonna do what Dads and Daughters have always done. You’re going to face it, and hope for a better day.”

I can’t face it Dad, it’s too hard without you. The aching never stops, It doesn’t let me breathe even for a second, but I’m doing my best.

I will love you forever,

Your favorite 3^rd Daughter

Your Punky Princess

Your Deeders

Your World Traveler

Yours.

Seafood and Fudgsicles

Dad loved buffets.



He didn't really care what kind of buffet it was, but he was quite fond of Chinese food all-you-can-eat places. He'd even go alone if needed. We've been a buffet family from the very beginning in Modesto: Kings Table, Hometown Buffet, The Golden Dragon. Our family loved the variety.

When Dad would come to visit us once we moved to St. George, and if it was a Friday night, we'd all drive down to Mesquite, Nevada and hit the Friday Night Seafood Buffet at either the Casa Blanca or the Virgin River.

Dad's idea of a great evening was loading up his plate with as many peel-and-eat shrimp and crack-and-eat crab legs as he could balance while walking to the table to sit down. Then doing that a few more times. We'd all get tired of sitting and waiting for Dad to finish eating, so he'd finally give up and we'd all waddle our crab-filled bellies out to the parking lot for the ride home.

As we'd walk out, Dad would always mention: "If you add up all the crabs that we just ate, what would they look like all running across the parking lot?"

I always got a kick out of that.


-------------


I remember as a kid, Mom worked for Doctors Medical Center in Modesto. Every summer, they'd have a big picnic for all the employees. We each got a bracelet which entitled us to "free food" and all the games they had there for kids. It was quite a fun time.

Dad decided that the free fudgsicles offer was too good to pass up.

Dad sat at our table and made us girls run and get him fudgsicles. After all three of us running up multiple times, the tally was NINETEEN fudgsicles. I'm not sure if Dad fizzled out at 19, or if we were just too scared to ask the popsicle guy for more. But that story has come up multiple times throughout the years as a source of pride and embarasment for Dad.

Best Vacation Ever

I think it was about 1999. I had my own apartment and Dad brought a brown van and trailer load of furniture that he had saved from our Knoles Court House days. We filled my new place with old furniture, but had a doozie of a time getting the hide-a-bed sofa in the stairwell and into the second floor apartment.

We watched the movie Tombstone with Kurt Russell and Val Kilmer. Dad wasn't one to watch the same movie over and over: if he was going to spend his time with a second viewing of a great movie, he'd rather wait a good five or ten years in between showings. But we watched Tombstone a few times that week he stayed at my new apartment. We hit Hollywood Video and rented an old movie My Darling Clementine about the gunfight at the OK Corral. It was full of errors in history, even Doc Holliday who was a dentist in real life, performed abdominal surgery in this flick. We watched it and laughed hysterically.

And we started planning...

We planned a McBride vacation to top all the Disneyland trips of our youth. We would take the brown van from St George and drive down to Tombstone, Arizona and see the OK Corral, the Bird Cage Theater, and any other sites a good Wyatt Earp fan cared to see.

We gallivanted through Southern Arizona, down to Tombstone, over to Nogales, Mexico and then headed back north towards Las Vegas. On the way home, we stopped at the Hoover Dam, but didn't have time to do the tour.

That trip taught me so much:

*It taught me that even when on vacation, you can always find someone who knows someone who knows where the nearest LDS chapel is to attend church. We went to Young Womens at some Ward in Benson, Arizona and they found it strange that we made the effort to go to church when we didn't know a soul in the area and were on vacation just passing through. It was that important to Dad to attend church as a family, broken as we were.

*It taught me that you don't really need air conditioning if you have pillow cases, an ice chest, and a little bleach-water. We also stopped at K-Mart and got some cool battery operated personal misting fans that Dad thought were must have purchases for $1 or so.

*It taught me that car trouble can be a learning experience - we all learned how to unpack a van full of junk, change a blown tire on the side of the road, repack all the junk, and limp in to the next town. I was most surprised that Dad didn't lose his temper or yell or curse at any time during that little fiasco.

*It taught me to give. We were at a gas station outside of Lake Havasu City. We had just seen the London Bridge and we stopped at a gas station. A middle aged woman, maybe 40 or 50 years old (she seemed older) was outside asking for money. Dad, always the boy scout, handed her a few cans of food that he had packed along and an extra can opener. The woman looked up almost in tears and thanked him. He handed her a few dollars too. She asked him how she could repay him. Dad gave his usual answer: "Some day, two young men in white shirts and name tags will cross your path. They have a message. Listen to that message."

*It taught me to think of others. We took a little day trip down to Mexico. None of us had been - Dad went sometime right after high school with some friends but wanted to take us. We parked at a McDonald's restaurant just inside the border. (Thank goodness Dad thought to bring several gallons of drinking water with us.) The whole time in Nogales, Dad kept urging us to let him buy us each one thing to remember the trip. We visited several shops and had young "Vato" salesmen yelling at us "We are cheaper than Walmart!" Aubrey got some genuine gold jewelry that turned her finger green within a few hours. (Heidi, what did you get? I don't remember.) I never saw anything that I just couldn't live without. Dad was also looking, but he was looking at things that he would hate. I didn't see him needing a flower pot, or a terra cotta rooster. I finally realized that he was looking to get something for Grandma. She still has the rooster he brought hundreds of miles back to Saint George, then hundreds of more miles to Sonora.

We made it back home, a little sunburned, and a lot closer as a family unit. It was much less expensive than a trip to Disneyland. We went to grocery stores and bought loaves of bread and canned goods to eat. We didn't hit every drive through. We stayed in a motel a few nights, but mostly drove through the night in "the little brown van that could."

I really enjoyed that trip. I still enjoy the memories we made with Dad. That was my best vacation ever.

Dear Dad,

Dear Dad,

We've all been missing you like crazy.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm in denial or haven't grasped enough yet that you died. I'm not sad, mostly because you're still such a big part of my life. I feel like you're still always around - I'm sure Ryan feels it too since I've still got so much junk of yours around the house and yard.

Every day I think of something that reminds me of you, or something that I'd like to tell you that would make you smile. I want to call you or text you so bad and let you know what's up, or ask you a gardening question. The girls are growing up so fast and doing and saying funny things. They still love princesses and dancing. They love the Barbie House you made. Thanks for saving all those dolls and clothes in there. It was so cool to see all that stuff again after 20 years. I sometimes send Floyd and Rick pictures or videos of the twins which I'm sure you'd be sending on to them anyway.

I'm not really sure how Aubrey is handling things, but Heidi seems to be hit really hard. I wish I could help her get through it easier. We talk a lot about you and things you'd say or do. We laugh and remember the good times. I talked to Grandma a few days ago and she misses you so much. She doesn't want to get out much anymore.

We've been taking the girls to church just about every Sunday. They love going to Nursery and "All the kids, Mama!" They love to learn about Jesus and they love to pray. After every prayer, they say, "AMEN! That's it!" They do that with every prayer in Sacrament Meeting too. It's nice and quiet after a prayer and you can hear them saying "That's it!" Too funny!

I'd love to call you and chat about McBride genealogy. I've got a few people I've met online that are related from way back in the family line. We've been exchanging pictures and stories and information. It's been really great. The new Church genealogy site new.familysearch.org has also been really cool. It tells you whose work isn't done and you can get "dibs" to do it yourself. Like Grandma's parents aren't done, so that will be cool to get that done eventually. It makes me want to try harder to get to the temple.

We've got a great new ward, much like 9th Ward - it's so easy to go to church every Sunday with all that support. Mom's been a great help to come over before church and help get the girls ready so I can get ready.

I want you to know that I'm so proud of the life you lived, the friendships you forged and maintained, and the example you set for everyone. It was such an honor to be your daughter, even though you could be a pain in the butt sometimes. You said it best yourself, "When I'm in Utah, and I've got at least two daughters mad and not talking to me, I know it's time to go back home."

It's been on my mind fairly constantly that you're up in Heaven preparing another little soul to come to our family. I can't get it out of my mind. Ryan and I have talked about having more kids and I'm feeling like the time might be soon, so STOP WORRYING ABOUT IT!

I love you, Dad.

Empty Milk Glass

I remember being a little kid at the dinner table. We'd help Mom set the table and we'd all sit up to eat. Dad would sit down and Mom would ask what we wanted to drink for dinner.

"MILK!"

Mom would first pour Dad a nice, tall glass of milk. Then she'd turn her back and start pouring smaller glasses for us. As we sat at the table waiting for Mom to sit down, we'd watch Dad tank that glass of milk - gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp.

Mom would be done pouring for us and for herself and walking back to the fridge to put the jug away. Dad would then say, "HEY! I didn't get any!"

Dad's glass always had mysterious streaks of milk inside even though he "didn't get any."


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As an adult, I realized how much of a country boy Dad was. He would only ever drink whole milk, and to him that was barely acceptable. He'd be much happier in the mountains laying under a cow and squirting milk from the source. To his city-girl daughter, that seems so unsanitary!

Personal Memory by Mariann

I was just in the kitchen making dinner for my husband: Oven fried Chicken, dipping the chicken pieces in seasoned flour, then in an egg and milk bath, then back into the seasoned flour. I suddenly remembered one day when my Brother Rex had come over to our apartment in Sonora for dinner. He had arrived about 2 hours before dinner, the first time I think he was ever early for anything. We had talked and I started to prepare dinner. Rex was watching and asked if he could do something to help. I had a bunch of things going so I said he could help me with the oven fried chicken. I prepared the seasoned flour in a large bowl, while he sprayed sheet pans with non stick. I whipped the egg and milk mixture in another bowl and showed him how to dip from the flour , shake it off and then onto the sheet pan, telling him when he finished that I would show him the next step. This was the easiest way to do it and the cleanest way I knew.

When he finished, he actually thought he was done, ha. I then showed him step 2 take chicken from sheet pan into the egg and milk mixture with one hand and with the other into the flour again and back onto the sheet pan. I said "... like Karate Kid Movie... wax on, wax off. Egg on with one hand , flour on with the other." He was so serious and tried very hard. Known for His famous 8 finger biscuits, I thought he would have it down in no time. By the time he finished, he was so sticky and gummy, both hands, eight fingers, up all past his wrists, and just a mess. Then he tried to get it off. I was watching and a few moments went by when he said in his high pitched little boy voice, "Its S-T-I-C-K-Y!!!!!!"

He was so funny to watch. He had created a huge gummy mess between the egg milk and flour mixture, I laughed so hard - we both did. That was so fun and such a great memory of Rex!! Just us cooking together, and laughing so hard! Good Times!

Four Motorcycle Generations

Dad was always proud of the motorcycle pictures and usually had them displayed in our house. I thought I should share.

Rex Howell McBride

1979 - Spencer Avenue

Modesto, California

Gerald Lee McBride

Unknown Year / Location - Auntie Mariann, can you help with that??

Russel Ray McBride

1915 - Near the corn fields, Ohio

I've turned into Rex...

I don't know how many of you are familiar with Dad's habits and the way he did even little things. Dad had so many pill bottles, that he started putting labels on the tops of the containers as shown below. When he came to visit, he'd sometimes ask me to get in his backpack and get him a "C" pill and two "H" pills. It was quite easy to do.

It's funny to me how much I'm realizing that I'm EXACTLY like him. Because this container of medicines is MINE, not Dad's. I found it so much easier to label my prescriptions, vitamins and supplements than looking at the name of each one. Dad was certainly onto something there. I now find myself sometimes asking Ryan to get me an "F" pill or an "M" pill for my headache or back, etc. Quite handy.

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Dad had many uses for bleach.

I remember him telling that sometimes when he couldn't get a shower, he'd take a washcloth and splash a little diluted bleach on it and call that a shower.

Another time, we were driving down to Tombstone Arizona in the brown van which had no air conditioning. It was summertime and quite hot. Dad stopped at a KMart in Lake Havasu AZ to buy some bleach cleaner and a block of ice. We emptied out our ice chest as instructed by Dad. He put the block of ice in the ice chest and poured a little bleach and water in there. He then asked us to give him all the pillow cases. We were confused to say the least. I thought he was starting a load of laundry right there in the van. Fifteen minutes later, we were all wearing our damp bleachy pillow cases around the back of our necks to cool us off. The bleach was to keep everything fairly sanitary since we were all sweating.

So, I've recently had a bout of stubborn Athlete's Foot. I remember Dad had it alot and would always splash a little bleach in the shower after he was done using it. He said it was mostly so he didn't give it to anyone who showered after him. Considerate and strange I guess. But I found myself in my shower, splashing bleach on the shower floor to try to control things a bit. It seemed completely normal to me to have a bleach product in the shower, but Ryan thought it was strange. I had some "Rex-isms" to explain to him.

Dad was certainly adaptable to almost any situation. I find myself in odd situations trying to adapt and I think I'm a better person because of the example he was to me.

Rex & His "5" Girls

Grandma told me that Dad always liked this picture. I was quite pregnant with the twins and we knew they were girls. We didn't know their names at the time. Grandma was the one to take this picture. We were on our way to hit a buffet dinner (of course) at Golden Corral and I think it was in honor of Dad's birthday.

HHaappppyy NNeeww YYeeaarr - Tradition with Dad

I've been meaning to blog this over the last week, but haven't had a chance. I've been thinking a lot about missing him and all the phone calls and texts that we would have shared in these last three months since he passed away. I'm sure many of you do too.

Dad and I kinda had a little tradition going for a while for New Year's Eve. I'd always call Dad on holidays anyway. Lots of our conversations were 2 hours anyway. All the time, we'd chat about this and that. Thank goodness for unlimited nights & weekends.

Well, once about 10 years ago, I called Dad on New Year's Eve since I had the night off and knew that he probably didn't have any plans. We made it a "Daddy-Daughter Date" thereafter. I'd call him around 11pm my time (10pm CA time) and we'd chat for a while. We'd countdown the seconds to midnight and listen to all the hollering and partying going on right at the buzzer.

We'd continue to chat for almost another hour. Then we'd countdown again the Pacific Time Zone midnight. More hooting and hollering on Dad's end.

After a few hours of chatting and celebrating by poking fun at the crazies on the other end of the phone line, we'd finally have done enough gabbing to hang up. Phone-sore-ear usually followed.

This year, I kept thinking that I wouldn't be able to call him and celebrate TWO time zone's New Years with him. I called "Uncle Floyd" instead and chatted about what the girls were up to. It was good to hear his voice.

I hope all my memories never fade - but in time, they will. Thank goodness for this blog!

Ball Point Pens & Feet

One of my favorite memories as a kid was when Dad would tuck us in to bed at night. He'd tell us one of many silly stories of his youth that would crack us all up. Then he'd turn out the lights and say goodnight.

Occasionally, just as I was drifting off to sleep, Dad would suddenly come back in my room, pull the covers off the bed, and put one of my feet in a choke hold. He would be giggling and taunting as I screamed for mercy. Dad would take a ball point pen and, holding my foot while I kicked and screamed and giggled, write my first, middle, and last name on the bottom of my foot. If I wiggled enough for him to not finish a letter, he'd have to do that letter over and over again until it looked right. Just more Daddy style torture.

And something that I'll have to try on my kids eventually also...