J.W. Beasley, 87, passed away on Wednesday, April 30, 2025, at the North Mississippi Medical Center Hospice Unit.

J.W. is survived by his wife of 67 years, Liz Beasley; his daughter, Rhonda Beasley; his brother, Roy Beasley (Shirley); niece, Anita Parker; stepsister, Jenice Starkey; stepbrother, Eddie Shields; grandchildren, Matt, Brad, Leah, and Katie; and two great-grandchildren, Bahr and Eleanor. He is preceded in death by his parents, Clovis Beasley and Odean Shields.

Services will be at 1:00 p.m. Saturday, May 3, at the McNeece-Morris Funeral Home Chapel with Bro. Scott Hunter officiating. Pallbearers will be Tony Thornton, Gary Maxcy, Harold Holcomb, and Brent Thornton. Honorary pallbearers are James Brown, Jamie Brown, Bob Killingsworth, Ronnie Wilson, and Dwight McGee. Burial will be in the Fulton Cemetery. Visitation will be Saturday from noon until service time at the McNeece-Morris Funeral Home. In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to Itawamba Crossroads Ranch, 716 Airport RD, Fulton, MS, 38843.

To honor the life of the man who humbly pressed forward, his family shares glimpses of his story through the eyes of his granddaughter, Leah, below.

Built by Grit, Remembered with Love

Honest, loyal, and resilient, my grandfather's quiet strength made him a steady presence for all who knew him. A man of few words, his actions spoke volumes—each word he shared was always known, always remembered, much like him.

Many knew him as J.W.

To friends, he was Dub.

To us, his grandchildren, he was—and always will be—Daddydub.

Daddydub's days always began before the sun rose and ended long after it set. Worn from years of labor, his hands carried with them a dignity that could never be measured by titles or possessions. He lived by simple but profound principles, often telling me, "If you're going to do something, then do it right." That philosophy shaped every part of his life—his 67-year marriage and a career that saw him retire in 2017 after 63 years and 5 months of service with the Fulton Telephone Company.

At just 15 years old, he began his journey with the Fulton Telephone Company, joining his father, Clovis, and brother, Roy, to help pay off a family debt. What began as a short-term commitment turned into a lifelong career, with Dub continuing on for over six decades. Alongside his work at Fulton, he also spent 10 years moonlighting for Millport and Kennedy Telephone Companies in Alabama, never shying away from hard work. He never asked anyone to do something he wasn't willing to do. He climbed telephone poles well into his 70s, and he was often scolded in his retirement for getting on the roof. Even at 87, he didn't know how to not work and kept his hands busy with yardwork and projects around the house.

He often shared stories of his childhood, painting a vivid picture of a life shaped by hardship. Even at a young age, he carried the weight of poverty—seeing snow through the roof above his bed and going to bed hungry. Yet, despite these struggles, he developed a quiet resilience that would define the rest of his life. Determined to spare his own family from experiencing the same hardships, this resolve fueled his tireless work ethic.

When he wasn't working, you could find him at home. This was the place he loved most, often coming home after just one night on a family trip. Perhaps he wanted to go home as it was where he found his grounding, at the home he and my grandmother built together in 1978, pouring every bit of their heart and sweat into it. They often stayed overnight during construction, committed to building it to withstand time and a growing family. Little did he know, that home would one day become a refuge for his grandchildren, including me.

Once home, the man known to the world as Dub became Daddydub, racing his grandchildren across the lawn, beating us every time. On car rides, he'd play Johnny Cash songs, the soundtrack of our childhood with him. To this day, I can't hear "Folsom Prison Blues" without thinking of him humming along, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping to the rhythm that tried to outpace his lead foot.

Daddydub was a man of simple, steady routines. The scent of Levi Garrett chewing tobacco will always remind me of him. He always wore a white T-shirt or a button-down—always with a chest pocket, where he'd keep index cards and a pen, ready to jot something down at a moment's notice. That pocket was like an extension of him: practical, prepared, never flashy—just like he was.

For eleven years, if you saw him driving around town, chances were you'd spot Roscoe, his black Labrador retriever, riding shotgun, head out the window, tongue and ears flapping in the breeze. Like Daddydub, Roscoe was fiercely loyal, always needing to be near his family. When Roscoe passed, Daddydub grieved his four-legged best friend deeply. I have no doubt Roscoe was waiting to greet Daddydub at Heaven's gate, a red ball in his mouth and his tail wagging.

I remember the day he carried my sister and lead me by the hand, the same hand I held just last week. I'd forgotten how strong and large his hands were, like bear paws. It took me back to that day where he selflessly stepped into the role of father.

Daddydub taught us the essentials of life: how to tend a garden, shoot a gun (and shoot it well), change the oil in our cars, and appreciate that Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream is the best treat, and that watermelon is the perfect end to a summer day.

He taught us it was okay to be scared, but to be brave anyway. He showed us the meaning of resilience, the importance of keeping your word, and the value of integrity. He taught us what it means to love deeply—and now, we are learning that deep love means deep grief. Daddydub gave us everything we needed to navigate life, except how to live it without him.

He worried for his family constantly, especially when we were on the road. Whenever we traveled, he would call and ask, "What mile marker are you at?" It's a simple question I never thought I'd miss. But in honor of the man who always kept track, here's a poem that reflects the love he carried with him:

What mile marker are you at?
My grandfather always asked.
Worried as ever,
he kept track, just in case.
The mile marker always changed as I got older.
Now we are here at a mile marker
I never thought we'd reach,
Missing the simple question—
What mile marker are you at?