A Legacy and a Life Well Lived

Yesterday, Jason’s grandmother, Pauline Barnett (Nana), passed away, and we want to take a moment to remember and honor her life and legacy by sharing her with you.

Every family has a culture that shapes who they are for generations. Nana was that culture creator and identity anchor for Jason’s family. Every single morning of her life, with hair rollers tucked under a scarf, Nana walked out to pasture to feed her chickens. And every single evening, she’d pull on her boots to walk out to pasture to do the same thing all over again. It didn’t matter what else she had to do that day. It didn’t matter whose house she had to leave early. She was always home to walk that same path to pasture with a tin pan of kitchen scraps and chicken grain. 

In the summer when we would visit her farm, we’d drive into town with our shiny new rainboots and toddlers in tow ready to integrate into her world. Standing in front of her stove in the morning, she’d have already been up for hours doing her chores, starting breakfast, and listening to a preacher over the radio. A pot of beans with backfat simmering on a burner. We always slept in. 

When you bellied up to her kitchen counter in the morning, she’d put a plate in front of you and offer you her “Nana breakfast,” as all the grandchildren affectionately called it. Biscuits, fried apples, her famous canned sausage, bacon, and eggs. Maybe a slice of her banana bread if you were lucky. 

While family crowded the kitchen and spilled out onto the back porch, everyone would make plans for the day since we didn’t see each other often. Some days there would be adventures hiking and repelling from nearby mountains. Other days there would be plans to go shopping or play with someone’s new motorized toy. But the days always ended at one of Nana’s daughters’ houses for dinner, games in their yard, and Nana leaving early to feed her chickens back at home. 

As Jason grew up, visiting Nana and Papaw’s farm anchored a love for agriculture that he never really expected. His visits slowly changed from playing army and camping with cousins to strolling through rows of corn, beans, and tomatoes with his grandparents. Papaw would share seedlings with Jason that he started in an old broken down car that he used as an extra greenhouse. Nana would show him the old tires that she grew her new potatoes in. She even taught Jason how to butcher his first chicken on a whim. 

The first time I (Ashley) visited Nana’s farm, I was a teenager and I followed her out to her barn in my flip flops (rookie mistake) and hunched in the mud to milk her cow. Oh did she laugh. 

As you get older, visiting your grandparents starts to become less about the thrill of a trip out of town or being spoiled by them. It becomes more about just being in their presence and soaking them in. All of their knowledge, experience, and memories. All of their family lore, stories, and recipes. 

For Jason, that has meant sipping his Papaw’s stale coffee on his back porch over looking the farm. It meant following his Nana around her garden and trying to keep up with her as she worked. Nana was not very sentimental, but she expressed love through tools, skills, food, and competence. And that’s what Jason wanted.

Now that the farm is sold and his grandparents are with the Lord, it means sleeping under the quilts Nana sewed for us. Baking biscuits in her pans. Sharpening her cleaver to butcher our chickens. Sending visitors home with jars of food. Saving seeds in paper towels. Teaching our children what we learned from her. And every morning and evening, it means walking the path to our own pasture to feed our chickens kitchen scraps and grain. 

As Nana was in hospice this past week, we were hundreds of miles away but still felt near. We are living her life. She’s stitched into every piece of us. Every chick that we hatch, lamb that we feed, racoon that we shoot, and pot of beans that we cook continues her legacy. 

The weather has just started to warm towards spring and I can’t help but think about what Nana would be doing right now on her farm. She’d be doing exactly what we’re doing. Eagerly hoping for the new growing season. Willing to share what she grew with others. And probably on a roof fixing a leak giving all of her children heart attacks.

A legacy and a life well lived.

Thank you, Nana and Papaw.