Grandfather Rex

Granddaddy Rex - the early years

If you asked my grandfather about his childhood in Scurry County, Texas, the story you got was often stark.

He was born during the Great Depression on a farm that struggled to support its inhabitants in the best of economic times. He was only a few months old when his grandfather shot himself in the barn. In search of a better life, his parents drove a Model T to California, where Granddaddy discovered sidewalks perfect for rollerskating, but his farm-raised father couldn't handle reporting to work in a factory parking lot packed with cars so it was back to the tumbleweeds and struggle of the family farm. They got up early and worked long days for little financial return. The cattle got sick and required tending that usually didn't save them.

Granddaddy with his cousin Dorothy. They were only six months apart and remained close their entire lives. Both were only children. This probably was taken in Comanche, where their grandparents lived. Their mothers were sisters and came from a family of 10 surviving girls. 

My grandfather left that farm at 17 vowing to become anything but a farmer. Always practical, he still stuck with what he knew and studied agronomy. Always an achiever, he excelled. He became an internationally recognized research scientist. Nearly 20 years after his retirement, you can still find articles about his work on the internet: https://agresearchmag.ars.usda.gov/1999/may/smut/ Knowing him, he thought this article was funny.

Granddaddy always tried to prepare us for life's disappointments - perhaps because he encountered so much disappointment in his own life. Knowing how much I love my animals, he warned me that they probably don't go to heaven (I disagree with him there). Knowing how much work means to me, he warned me that it ultimately leads to a box of things that you gather upon retirement. A week ago, he stood in the doorway of his sunroom and told me that he wasn't doing well. I should've known then that he was trying to prepare me for a disappointment.

My grandparents on their wedding day: Oct. 1, 1952 in Snyder, Texas. They would've been married 68 years this October. 

A few weeks ago, he was diagnosed with lymphoma. The prognosis wasn't good and the cancer was brutal. He was terribly thin and couldn't sleep because of constant itching. He welcomed his first infusion for the possible relief it might offer. It didn't help at all.

We were so consumed with the lymphoma that we forgot about the other ticking time bomb. He had an abdominal aneurysm that was monitored twice a year. It chose to burst during a Zoom call we were having for his 89th birthday. It should've killed him immediately. Because Granddaddy was so strong, it didn't. He made it to the hospital, where he died hours later. Because of coronavirus, he died among strangers. If he was aware, he probably was terrified. He hated hospitals because he always worried about not leaving alive.

We found this letter after his death. Seventy eight years ago, my great-grandmother was very concerned about his boots. 

It wasn't the ending we wanted. But it was probably the ending that was best for him. He didn't have to suffer any longer battling lymphoma. He didn't have to worry about how long the lymphoma would take to kill him and what he would endure before it did.

I can't emphasize enough how little Granddaddy liked hospitals. A few years ago, he had to spend the night in the hospital for some minor procedure. He fought with the doctor over the hospital stay and wasn't as nice about it as he could've been. Driving to the hospital in Raceland to visit him, I spotted a McDonald's and swung through the drive through to get a few treats to pacify him. Carrying the ice cream sundae and apple pie into the hospital, I felt like I was visiting a small child and wondered if he would think it was silly that I'd brought him McDonald's. Then I walked into his room.

My grandparents as a young married couple.

He was happier to see me than he'd ever been in his life - and it wasn't because of the sweets (although he was plenty happy about those). He was alone in a hospital room for the first time, and he was scared to be there. He was human. As strong as he was and as strong in his faith as he was, he wasn't enthusiastic about leaving.

Granddaddy was such a good man. He made my grandmother breakfast every morning, bought her flowers on special occasions, turned Saturday into Chick-fil-a day and played love songs for her through Alexa.

Granddaddy with my dad and Aunt Brenna in front of the house he and my grandmother built in Mulberry subdivision in Houma. This is a great house. 

He worked hard and valued his money. He didn't drive cars for 100,000 miles. He drove them for 200,000 miles ... or more. He loved shopping at Sam's. Everything came from there: clothes, medicine and giant plastic tubs of mayonnaise. I'm still confused about the mayonnaise. Sure, it was cheap, but did he ever actually finish a tub before it went bad? Knowing him, he crunched the numbers and accounted for the estimated waste before he put it in his shopping cart.

Granddaddy loved babies. 

He wasn't afraid to cry, whether it was over his dad, our beloved Ed, dying or my grandmother getting diagnosed with cancer. He would put on music and dance with my Uncle Scotty, who was born profoundly disabled. He loved to laugh. Boy, did he love to laugh. He used to tell us about 1930s baby food just to laugh at our reaction (his granny would chew up food in her mouth, spit it out and feed it to him).

Most of all, he loved. He loved the Lord and he loved his family. He treated his grandchildren like they were his own children both emotionally and financially. He was at the hospital for every birth unless it happened too far away to make the drive. He packed grandchildren into the minivan for family reunions. He made up silly names for us. My sister was Linda Bird. Our cousin was Aimee Baby Cousin. Later, when the great grandchildren, arrived he was so proud. I stopped by the house one day when a neighbor was visiting. "I'm so glad you're here," he told me. "Do you have pictures on your phone of Elise (the oldest great grandchild) that you can show Rhonda?"

He just enjoyed life - not in a grand way, but in his own way. He wasn't one for restaurant dining. He talked about visiting Ireland but never did and probably didn't regret it. He was happy to putter around the house, tending to a wife fragile from cancer and heart issues. Any reading he did was financial or religious. He didn't believe in wasting time on fiction. He fiddled with investments, fed the cat and made tuna fish sandwiches (got to use that giant tub of mayo). And he was just fine with that. I never called before visiting. They were always home.

So, I think God gave him a gift in letting him die the way he did. It was unexpected and quick. He kept his routine until the end. He didn't have to spend the night in a hospital bed and die days later. And if anyone deserved a gift from God, it was Granddaddy.