In Loving Memory of Randy David Pease September 26, 1958 – April 27, 2026 There are some men whose lives are not measured in titles or accolades, but in the steady, unmistakable way they show up for the people they love. Randy David Pease was one of those men. Born on September 26, 1958, in Pocatello, Idaho, where Randy spent his early years before moving to Canyon County in the third grade. He graduated from Middleton High School and went on to build a life rooted deeply in the soil of Greenleaf, Idaho—a place that suited him well, where hard work, open skies, and strong values still mean something. Randy was a welder and fabricator by trade, working for Simplot, Shoky, and later retiring from YMC. But to reduce him to his profession alone would miss the point entirely. He was a craftsman in the truest sense—someone who believed in doing things the right way, even if it took longer, even if it wasn't easy. He carried old-fashioned ideals in a modern world, and he never felt the need to apologize for it. He was independent, generous, stubborn as hell, and fiercely loyal. Some described him best as a "teddy bear with teeth"—a man who might bark at you one minute and show up for you the next without being asked. And if you ever heard him say, "Well, looky there," you knew you were about to get Randy exactly as he was—no filter, no pretense, just real. Randy loved the things that made life feel alive—Mopar cars, firecrackers, hunting trips, fishing lines cast into quiet waters, and the simple joy of being outdoors. He had a deep appreciation for old western music, a good hot dog or ham and cheese sandwich, and a plate of mashed potatoes done right. He loved dogs, horses, and the kind of freedom that only comes from open land and a full tank of gas. But above all else, Randy loved his family. He is survived by his son David Pease and David's three children; his brother Steven Pease; his sisters Roxanne Kroff and Shirley Pease; his aunts Janice Norwood and Sherlene McClean; and many nieces and nephews who knew him as more than just an uncle—he was a teacher, a protector, and a constant presence. Randy didn't always say "I love you" in words. He said it by showing up. When his sister Roxanne faced a heart catheter procedure, Randy didn't hesitate—he drove all the way to Blackfoot just to be there, staying until he knew she was okay. That was his way. You didn't have to wonder if Randy cared. If you mattered to him, he was there. He passed on more than memories—he passed on knowledge, skills, and values. He taught younger generations how to shoot with responsibility, how to respect life and nature, how to work with their hands, and how to take pride in doing something well. Whether it was welding, working on cars, or handling firearms safely, Randy believed in teaching others—not with lectures, but with time, patience, and presence. He held his own quiet spiritual beliefs, walking his path in a way that reflected a deep respect for life, people, and the world around him. Randy leaves behind a legacy that doesn't fade easily. It lives on in the lessons he taught, the people he stood by, and the countless small moments that now mean everything. And if you listen closely—in the hum of a welder, the crackle of a firecracker, or the stillness of the outdoors—you might just hear his voice again, steady and familiar: "Well… looky there." May those who knew him find comfort in remembering him not with heavy hearts, but with quiet smiles, knowing that a man like Randy doesn't really leave—he just becomes part of the stories we keep telling.