Vernon Garrett, my name sake. Both my names came from my grandfathers. My first name, Garrett, was the middle name of my mother’s father. Lee is the middle name of my father’s dad. Many believe that there is something about a name. I don’t know how much stock I put in that previously… then we had my son. His name means little fire in the meadow, and my wife has made it clear that if we ever have another child we’re going to name it something that means calm spring or restful evening.
Enough of that and back to Vernon. I have many fond memories of my granddad. To a young boy, he was a wonderful granddad. He was a hard worker who provided for his family, a shade tree mechanic, hunter, lover of Jesus and just an all around man. My granddad was born in the depression and was orphaned by the age of 12. He was the oldest of four, and told stories of growing up on a farm poor. I loved squirrel hunting with him, and he would tell me of times that squirrel was the only meat his family had to eat if he was able catch one among the pecan grove basking on a limb in the early morning sun. He had a handshake that would put you to the ground that was born out of milking cows before school as the sun came up and in the evening daily. He told of a time he cut his hand on some corrugated metal and couldn’t afford to go to the doctor so he stitched his own hand up with horsehair and his aunt’s sewing needle. He told stories of having very little and making the most out of everything they had. “Waste not, want not” would be his motto.
Fast forward to my early adult years and my relationship with my granddad changed. He was more than just an older family member that loved on me and provided for me, he became a close friend. For two years of my life, before I fell in love with my wife and tricked her into marrying me, my granddad and I were nearly inseparable. We did everything together. We broke horses together, worked on taking down cedars in his pasture together (with an ax and a forty year old chainsaw that rarely worked, mind you). We hunted, fished and dreamed together. If my truck needed fixed, we tackled that together, usually arguing and fussing at each other the whole way through. My granddad found his youth again hanging out with me. He taught me many things during that time, and I have very fond memories hanging out with the “old man” (that’s what I called him just to irritate him).
At some point I started to believe that my grandad and his ways were antiquated and irritating. I would get annoyed that he would save his dishwater and put it in a bucket that he carried out to my grandmother’s rose bushes. I would argue with him about his frugality (I really saw it as being a cheapskate at the time). I no longer believed in his agricultural folksy wisdom. I was at this point, helping run cattle, and felt like I knew more about animal husbandry than my grandfather.
Last year my wife and I butchered our second batch of chickens. We had raised these birds from chicks to harvest. We killed them ourselves, processed them and packaged them. We cooked and ate that poultry and made homemade chicken stock with the leftovers. We canned the broth for future cooking and fed the soft bone mash to our dogs. It was very satisfying and left us feeling like we had really accomplished something. I remember standing in the kitchen recounting the whole process and a thought came to my mind: “I wish Vernon G. was here to be a part of this.” I cried at the thought. I mourned my grandfather’s death, but he was physically a shell of a man at his passing, so there was almost a sense of relief that his suffering was over. I hadn’t really settled his passing until that night in the kitchen. I was sad my grand dad wasn’t around to rejoice in my accomplishment. I was sad he wasn’t there to argue with me about my methods of processing or frivolous spending on a chicken plucker (he would have put up a passionate argument that we could pluck chickens by hand rather than spend money on a plucker). I felt a sadness because my granddad, above anyone else, would have been 150% on board with our endeavor.
He would have had a blast through the whole process, and would have been our biggest fan. I am not grieved to the point of despair about my granddad’s passing as I have a hope, the same hope he had in Christ. I will see my granddad again, and we will kneel before our heavenly father in grateful worship. I am thankful for the time I had with Vernon. I’m thankful he loved me enough to be a friend to me. When I bake bread with my son, process chickens with my family, eat a good cherry pie or find myself keeping something I don’t really need “just in case” I think of my granddad and smile. Isn’t it interesting how many of the things I found irritating about my granddad are things I value in my life today?
Author: Garrett Napier