Growing up, our main source of family fun involved a lake, a boat and water skis. My dad loved to waterski and wanted us to love it, too. My sisters learned quickly and were good at it, too. Me? Not so much. I resisted. (and that had to have frustrated my Dad.) It’s not that I was opposed to skiing. No, what I was opposed to was was falling. Heck, I was terrified of it. So I stayed in the boat and prayed he wouldn’t make me ski.
Grandpa and I together on the shore of Fort Loudon Lake near Knoxville, Tennessee. We’re standing on the little beach in front of the cabin.
My grandparents had a cabin on the Tennessee River near Knoxville, Tennessee. Going there was our annual summer vacation. I loved the place — it’s a source of some of my fondest family memories. There would be hours of sun-baked swimming, playing on the little beach and fishing off of the dock.
One year, Dad came out on the dock, looked me in the eye and said it was time for me to learn how to ski. While I didn’t think Dad would have called me a chicken to my face, I know he probably was thinking it. That meant I had officially run out of excuses. I gave into into the enviable and said, “Oh OK.” Dad was more persistent than Sam-I-am in that way.
Our boat. My Dad loved it and we spent many hours on Lake Allatoona (in Georgia) and Fort Loudon Lake (in Tennessee). I think that it my sister leaping off the boat courageously.
We climbed into the boat and headed downriver. Dad pulled into a quiet cove where it’d be safe for me to learn to ski. He threw the skis out into the water and me right after them. Then he carefully pulled the boat around to guide the rope to me. I’d get my skis up, give him the signal and he’d gun the engine. I must be part concrete because I wouldn’t get up. He’d drag me down the river and half the time, I would forget to let go of the rope. By mid afternoon, I had drank so much of the Tennessee River that I started to develop gills.
I know Dad must’ve been frustrated. Hell, I was frustrated. But he didn’t show it and I kept trying. Up and down and down and up the river we went.
And then a miracle happened – I got up!
Dad’s probably thinking, “I wish this kid would ski!”
I gripped the rope and bounced along in the wake behind of the boat. Skiing was FUN! (I would ski with a goat, in a boat, Sam-I-Am!)
Then it happened. Dad got bored. Dad was big kid. And like most kids, he had a bit of an impish streak in him. He turned the boat in a circle to sling me outside of the wake. If you understand centrifugal force, you know that if the boat goes 20 mph, the little kid on the end the rope is going 750 mph. I remember cracking the sound barrier. And then it happened.
I hit a piece of driftwood.
Dad really did poke me with a paddle.
TVA raises and lowers Fort Loudon Lake for mosquito control (and to apparently wash every piece of wood out into the middle of the channel.) I tumbled like the skier on the opening of ABC’s old Wide World of Sports and smashed into the water’s surface. And that surface felt like it was made of concrete. When I hit, one of the skis hit me in the head. I nearly was knocked out.
Dad was a caring man. He gingerly guided the boat next to me and pulled out a paddle and started poking with me.
He said, “Are you OK?”
Groggily, I said, “Go away.”
He replied, “Grab the rope.”
“No,” I said. “You tried to kill me.”
“Grab the rope,” he repeated.
I said, “No. And why should I? I’m swimming back.”
He shook his head and said, “Grab the rope. We’re going to make your story about how you got back up — not how you fell down.”
Near where I learned how to ski. The thing you see in the middle? A log. What I hit was pretty close to that size.
Well, I grabbed the rope. And I kept skiing. If I had been afraid, I would have missed out on a lifetime of fun.
Flash forward 25 years. I was lying in bed, groggy from a big dose of opioid pain medication. I had just had surgery to remove a melanoma (and a good chunk fo my back.)The medication left me half-sleeping with visions of peaceful purple pelicans and feeling sorry for myself for having cancer. Then suddenly, I felt a pressure against my forehead. Thump. Thump. Thump. I groggily opened my right eye and saw my Dad standing over me, pressing his finger against my forehead. Thump. Thump. Thump.
I said, “What are you doing?”
He replied, “Get up. We’re walking around the block and I’m helping you.” “I just had surgery. Leave me alone.”
“Get up. We’re going to make your story about how you beat cancer, not how you had it.”
He gingerly helped me up and nearly carried me around the block. But we did it. That was my Dad. Pity parties weren’t allowed in his world and he knew that if you framed a problem a certain way, it could become an opportunity. And he knew what I was going through. He had had cancer a few months before my surgery. The man wasn’t Yoda. And Lord knows he wasn’t perfect. But he was a perfect dad for me.
Dad waterskiing at 78. I hope I can grow up and be just like him someday.
Little did I know that summer’s afternoon waterskiing that my father was teaching the most important three-part lesson I’ve ever learned:
1. Grab the rope. 2. Get back up. 3. Change your story.
My name is George Whittington Bomgardner IV but you can call me Whit. That’s what my friends call me. My wife Martha and I live in our family home deep in the Mississippi Delta. The Delta, a former flood plain of the Mississippi River — well, I say former because if the levees ever fail again like they did in 1927, we’ll be dog paddling to Yazoo City — anyway, the Delta is a flat, hot, beautiful place that’s a land of extremes. You have great wealth and great poverty. You have great writers and great illiteracy. You have — well, you get it. There ain’t no middle ground here and very little high ground. But there’s something about the place. It’s magical. The soil is rich and deep. My family came here right after the Civil War and cleared the swamp and planted cotton. Now, I’m not particularly proud of some of the other things my family did — but they are my family and all I can do is not repeat some of their mistakes. But this story isn’t about me. This story is about a man, a piece of land and how it all came together one season to change our little community of Rock Bottom, Mississippi.
I see that look on your face. You’re asking, “Where’s Rock Bottom, Whit?” Head north on highway 49W. Go past Yazoo City and Belzoni. You’ll see a couple of dried up catfish ponds and a hanger with a crop duster. Then look left and squint. Way off on the horizon is Rock Bottom. We have a crossroads, well, not the crossroads. A convenience store and a fast food restaurant. Well, it’s not really fast and what they serve isn’t really food. But it is a place where all us farmer-types meet on Tuesday mornings and talk about all what is wrong with the world. And on that particular Tuesday in the early part of spring, we talked about the Arrington kid who came back to town.
Bobby and Frances Arrington were neighbors and dear friends who owned the farm across the street. It consisted of thousands of flat acres covered with soybeans and cotton and reaching West towards the river. Then one day, they died when Bobby’s small Beechcraft Bonanza nosedived into ground near Wolf Lake. At the age of 55, my friends ended up smeared like bugs on a windshield. It was one of the sadder funerals I’ve attended — both of their caskets were lined up in the little Episcopal church. There on the front row were two of their three boys, Bobby Jr. and Frank. Their son, Michael, sat in the back of the church by himself. It was a pretty powerful metaphor for their family to be honest. Bobby Jr. and Frank were the good sons. They worked with their dad and helped keep the farm moving. Michael wanted to be an artist and left town when he was 17. While a lot of people in this community judged Michael and called him weird, I didn’t really care. All I know is that he broke his mama’s heart.
The reading of the will was equally as awkward. My friend Scott is the local lawyer and he told me about the tension that day. Bobby Jr. and Frank got the farm, as you’d expect. And Whit got one acre right across the street from my house. I think the parents were sending a message — and it was received. Michael quickly left town again.
Martha and I’d pour a drink and sit on the front porch every night as we’d watch the sun set over the Delta. As the glasses drained, we’d wonder about that little patch of land. And every day, the weeds and trees would grow a little bit taller. The brothers would plow around it, leaving it sticking out. It was a shame, really. Some of the richest land in the Delta lay fallow. Little did I know then, but Michael’s life was the same.
Michael was a talented artist. He could paint and play the piano. God, Bobby had no idea what to do with the kid. While the other boys would be out playing football, Michael would be inside drawing pictures of airplanes or playing the piano. Then one day, he announced he was going to New York and he was gone. I heard he had had some initial success but the place beat him down. The pain he felt soon led him to self-medication. He was drinking even more than we folks in the Delta are used to — and that’s plenty. And then his mama and daddy ended up charred and scattered across the Delta. That’s when the wheels came off. There would be no, “I’m proud of you.” There’d be no, “I love you.” Michael came home for the funeral, realized it was a mistake to be there and went back into his bottle.
Until two springs ago.
I was out back, getting ready for another day in the fields when I heard a car door slam and cursing. I turned the corner of the house to see what was going on and saw a beat up old car and Michael standing in front of the one-acre. He was cussing like I guess they do in New York. F-this and F-that, he was blaming the whole world for all of his problems. And then he chunked an empty Jim Beam bottle into the middle of the field. And “F-you, too, land!” he screamed. I got Martha out of the bed and we watched as Micheal hit his knees and started crying. And then the man did something totally unexpected. He pulled a machete out of his car and started whacking at the growth.
“What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Martha asked as she wiped sleep out of her eyes.
“Beats me,” but this should be good.
I got back for lunch and that damn fool was still at there whacking at the weeds. He had cleared a pretty sizable patch but I could tell his soft hands were paying a price. Blood from the open blisters ran down his arms and onto his white shirt. But it wasn’t slowing Michael down. I thought about offering to help but figured he’d burn out, get back into his car and not be seen again.
I was wrong.
The next morning, Michael had bought some gloves and continues whacking at the overgrown field. It was that point when I decided to walk across the street.
“You’re Bobby and Frances’ kid, right?”
Michael stopped and looked at me and then smiled. “Yes sir, Mr Bomgardner.”
“What’s going on here?”
Michael pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to me. On it was a detailed plan for the acre plot. I folded it and handed back to him.
“So you’re going to become a farmer. And what do you know about being a farmer?”
“Not a damn thing,” he said.
“Do you need some help cleaning this?”
“Nope,” he said, “This is on me.”
The old man gossip club abandoned the fast food restaurant and started meeting on my front porch. We’d watch that damn fool hack at the bristles, snakes and small trees. Elmer White, who owned the farm to the right of ours, looked at me and said, “Should we help him?”
I shook my head. “Don’t think so. This is some kind mission for him.”
Piles of brush dotted the acre and Michael began attacking roots and stumps. He used manual tools and worked from sunup to sundown six days a week. On Sunday, he’d sit out in the middle of that field and read what looked like the Good Book. I really don’t know where he was staying but heard he was sleeping in his car. On Sundays, after he had left, his brothers would come and look at what their brother was doing and just shake their heads. “He always was a moron.” Bobby Jr. said as they two of them got back in their Chevy pickup.
One morning, I woke up to smoke. Michael was burning the dead brush. That crazy kid really was going to make a go of it. He pulled up a few days later with a trailer hooked to his car. On it was a rototiller. He spent the better part of the day plowing the rich, dark Delta soil. Every once in a while, he’d stop and look at his map. And then he’d pull out a small book. On it was the title, “How to grow a garden.”
I told Martha, “This should be interesting.”
Michael build a deer fence around the acre and was careful not to put any of it on his brother’s lands. He planted tomatoes, beans, squash, okra, cucumbers, peppers, you name it. I asked him if he was going to plant soybeans, cotton or corn. Michael shook his head. “Look around. This place already looks like Indiana.” Corn had gotten popular because of ethanol that year.
I got to admit, the boy was persistent. He was out there daily hoeing and weeding every single day. While I know his brothers wouldn’t intentionally help him, a crop duster did fly over one day and “accidentally” treat his plants. I know the pilot, though. He was a crazy ol’ Vietnam vet who had a heart of gold — especially after a really bad crash he had last year. It was probably his kindness, not the boy’s brothers’ having a heart.
Martha and I’d sit on the porch at night as the boy would water and tend to his plants. Deer would watch, too — trying to figure out how to get into that fence and eat breakfast. His brothers would watch, too, wondering what their crazy brother was up to. The days passed by and the plants grew. And by late summer, Michael’s hard work and planning started to pay off.
“I bet he’s going to sell all those vegetables and take the money and run,” Martha said one night as the sun began to sink beneath the treelike.
She was wrong.
Michael harvested the crop he had grown and donated every single vegetable to local churches and shelters. He’d take them and cook meals and deliver them to the poor and elderly who lived nearby Rock Bottom. He invited families in on Sunday to come and get what they wanted that was left.
Michael Arrington didn’t keep a single tomato nor did he make a single dollar for himself.
As fall came, I asked him what this was all about. And the kid who everyone thought was weird said the most sane thing I’d ever heard in my life.
“Mr. Bomgardner, our minds are like this little plot of land. Our brain is a gift from our parents. It is rich and fertile just like this soil. It can grow huge weeds or mighty crops. I, for most of my life, squandered my plot of land, by not having a plan and not working it. And like this land, I let my brain lie fallow. The huge weeds left me depressed and I tried to kill them with alcohol. Instead, it just fertilized them. One day, I ran across this little book on how to grow a garden. It was in a bookstore in New York. I read it is and realized this little patch of land in Rock Bottom was my salvation. So I sold everything I had, bought this car and drove home. I used what I had left to help other people. Your next question is probably is where do I go from here?” Well, I have a plan for next season. But in the meantime, I am going to start creating art again. Because we’re all artists, Mr. B. Even you. We all have it in our power to help other people with our talents. This plot of land saved me. You can tell that to the old men who stare at me every Tuesday.”
I patted him on the back. “Your mama and daddy would be proud of you.” It might have been dust in his eye or it could have been the way the Delta sun hit his face, but I swear I saw a tear.
You probably have seen Michael on Good Morning America and the Today Show. His book titled, “Your Mind is your Garden” was a New York Times Best Seller. He also illustrated it. Now several churches help him tend to his garden as he travels the world telling people about his one acre of land.
All I know is that I saw it first hand. When Michael Arrington hit Rock Bottom, he changed his mind and grew a beautiful crop. And the world was better off for it.
Patrick is one of the managers of the Madison Fed-Ex/Kinkos locations. I go there to make copies and to occasionally ship things. I’m sure I could probably get my printing done somewhere else (I use that store for small-run orders). But talking to Patrick is a lure that gets me through the door. He’s solid. And based on our conversations, I respect him.
Patrick used to work for a big-name retail company in the loss/theft protection division. We talked about how much fraud there is out in there in the world and how so many people will just flat out steal from their company. He loved the job but it was a 24/7 all-consuming career. “It got to the point my son would pass me in the hall and I would hardly recognize him.” He’d travel Mississippi working on claims — and as soon as he’d get home, his phone would go off and he’d head back out.
He decided it was time for a change.
In the couple of times I’ve been in there, we’ve talked about kids, parenting, careers, dreams — you name it (it takes a few minutes for the printer to do its job and I come early in the morning when there are few if any customers.). He loves working for Fed-Ex because he can give 100% while at work and 100% to his family. “I’m just at the point in my life where I realize that’s what it important.” I said I agreed — your job won’t be holding your hand when you die after all. But there’s a shot your family will.
Patrick is extremely proud of his kids and for good reason. They both are in college and are about to chase their own dreams. It sounds like he has been a plugged-in, involved father. As I was paying he told me about his his dream. He’s working on a Ribs/BBQ takeout restaurant in Flora. It will be open on the weekends — I’ll tell you more about it when it is open and I try his food. He told me he wanted something that was his own. Where he could put his sweat into his work and feel the pride of ownership.Why am I writing this? Because everyone has a story. Some stories are better than others but they are there. I am thankful Patrick shared his story with me and I hope he doesn’t mind me sharing a little bit of it to you. He’s a pro. And from what I can tell, Fed-Ex is lucky to have him.
The printing turned out great, btw. Not that I had any doubt.
One of the dangers of being an editorial cartoonist is that for years, you just worry about one thing: Your deadline. Then tomorrow, you worry about one more thing: Your deadline. You have an artificial structure where you are allowed to be as creative as you want — but all within the confines of that cycle.
I say it is a danger because if it gets taken away (or if you walk away) from it, you suddenly are left in a world with no structure whatsoever. You discover you are badly in need of some kind of air traffic control. Things come at you and then other things suddenly start falling through the cracks.
I’ve learned that the hard way. I was addicted to the structure of the deadline. It is what pushed me forward when I was procrastinating. It was what motivated me.
You don’t think five or 10 years down the road. You aren’t playing chess with your career. You are playing checkers. That is why you are shocked when someone comes along, taps you on your shoulder and hands you an envelope. Like a frog in a slow boiling pot, you’d just happy in the hot tub.
Until…
I was that way until 2010. Since then, I have been thrashing around trying to survive. Looking back at my journals, I’ve done OK. I have a great job and I love who I work with. But I had a great and loved who I work with. I just had to learn a more entrepreneurial mindset.
Today, I go. And go. And go go so more. But what I have to learn to master is becoming more proactive. To see what the future might brings and seize those opportunities. Work must be fun. And while I must live in the moment, I also know that I have to use that moment to prepare for the future. It is, if the Lord blesses me, coming.
I pray that I become a more strategic thinker.
Let me say this: If you go to your job and do the same thing over and over, you have to prepare for the day when you won’t get to do that thing again. And you must remember this simple truth: You are not your job. The job you do is a reflection of who you are. There’s a big difference there. One will cause you to be crushed if you lose your job. They other mean that if you do it right, people will seek you out to hire you.
John Mosley paints more than just cars. He also paints airplanes — and this particular one was a really rare warbird. This P-63F King Aircobra was a test aircraft, one of two and the only one left. It’s also one of three Aircobras that fly. While not embraced by the U.S., the Soviets bought over 3,000 Kingcobras and used them effectively against the Germans. Owned by the Commemorative Air Force, this plane is, as you can imagine, extremely rare. This is a drawing I did based off a photo I took. I used Procreate to draw/paint it.
“The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.” Marcus Tullius Cicero Today would have been dad’s 84th birthday. He died 983 days ago and I think it is safe to say that my sisters and I miss him very, very much. Dad was a great salesman, father, community member and small businessman. He loved his family, The University of Tennessee, to eat, to read, to fall asleep in his chair, to work hard (why he fell asleep in his chair), trading cars, golf, basketball and his cat. When he died, we stood in the receiving line listening to stories from over 40 years about how he had helped people. He set a powerful example. I often tell the story of how he taught me to waterski. Dad loved to ski (he skied at 78!) and really wanted me to learn. I fought it for a while (I was a pain as a kid) but one day, I relented and he took me out into the middle of Fort Loudon Lake (on the Tennessee River near Knoxville). Dad drug me up and down the river. Over and over and over and over. I, being eight and apparently not very bright, did not release the rope so I ended up drinking enough water to develop gills. Then a miracle happened — I popped up out of the water! I struggled to stay in between the wake and stay up. But as we went along, I could see dad starting to get bored. (Dad was a big kid and you didn’t want him getting bored). He put the boat into a tight circle and I got slung outside of the wake. For those of you who don’t understand centrifugal force, the boat goes 20, the little boy on the skis goes 795 mph. I was hanging on for dear life when I hit a piece of driftwood. CRASH! I looked like the skier from ABC’s Wide World of Sports (agony of defeat) opening. I tumbled, lost me skis and hit the water hard. And the water hit back. So did one of the skis — it whacked me in my head. I was half-dazed when he pulled the boat back around. He carefully pulled it next to me and started poking me with a paddle. I think he was messing with me. “You OK?” he asked. “Go away.” I responded. He then said, “Grab the rope.” “I’m swimming back.” “You can’t swim that far. Grab the rope.” “Why?” “Because we’re making your story about how you got back up, not how you fell down.” I grabbed the rope, popped back up and skied for the rest of the day. Twenty-five years later, I was lying in bed after my melanoma surgery. I was floating around in a haze of opioid painkillers, dreaming of purple unicorns and feeling sorry for myself because I had cancer. Then I felt pressure on my forehead. It was almost like tapping. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. I opened my eyes and saw my dad leaning over me. “Get up,” he said. “We’re walking around the block.” “But I just had surgery.” “Get up. I’ll help you. But we’re going to make your story about how you beat cancer, not how you had cancer.” You see, he knew what I was going through. He had had cancer a couple of years before I had. Dad wasn’t Yoda by any means, but he had a gift of teaching things indirectly. Any resilience I have is from him. And for that, I will be eternally grateful. Now when I get knocked down, I know to grab the rope. Grabbing the rope after dad died has been tough. But I know that’s what he would want. The man wasn’t big on pity parties. Let me just say this though: Dad wasn’t Saint Dave and that is not what this post is about. He was flawed and could at times be a butthead. (n that respect, the apple did not fall far from the tree.) And he and I could also butt heads. But after he died, my sisters and I realized just how much he loved and protected us. Dave Ramsey was about family and community. He loved my mother in a way I can’t understand. He loved his children deeply. In the video my friend Mike Frascogna III gave me, dad talks about me for about 30 minutes. He was so proud — not only of me but of my sisters. When we came up in the video, his eyes twinkled. Dad had many funny quirks. He’d point on maps with his middle finger. He’d get mad and say, “That’s wrom!” I thought for years that Washington was pronounced Warshington. He loved to laugh — I wish I had his sense of humor. It was that good. Dad always said after a big meal, “That was the best meal I ever had.” It was funny, actually, because we could predict it every single time. So tonight, I’m going out to eat. I’m going to eat a big meal. And in his honor, I am going to proclaim it to be the best meal I ever had. He changed when his dad died. When Grandpa passed away, dad really opened up. I understand why now. Happy birthday Dad. Thanks for all you did for us three kids. We love you. And we always will.
Watching my career change faster than you can say, “newspaper,” I’ve learned a couple of things about change. One, it’s going to happen whether you like it or not. The second, is that like an orange, you discover what is inside of you when you are squeezed. I know. I have been fired (once) and made part-time (once) — neither were fun. I have fumbled, bumbled, succeeded and failed in the past eight years. I can tell you, though, that if you want change to be real, you can’t patch up things on the surface. You have to take a good look at your heart.
I don’t mean go to the cardiologist (although if you are my age, that’s not a bad idea). No, I mean, you need to really ask yourself what’s driving you. What’s your purpose? Are you doing it to serve yourself or others? Is fear driving you? Or love?
You just vomited, right? I know I gagged a little. But when I say love, I don’t mean the sappy crap you see on Valentine’s Days cards. No, I mean you should use your talent in ways that make those around you lives better — you know, showing your love by your actions.
For example: Do something today out of the blue that makes your spouse or partner’s life better. Do something extra that makes your boss’ life better. Do something randomly that makes a friend’s life better. That’s what I mean by changing your heart. Give your time, talent and treasure. That will change your world. And will make the bigger one that much better.
I’m writing this because I’m not trying to be Zig Ziglar. I am writing it because I am in the process of rethinking why I am doing what I am doing. Time is speeding up on me. I am sitting here deciding what’s the best way to use my time on Earth.
Have a great day today. Find some way to make a difference.
Somewhere in a library in a community college, there is a student drinking her third cup of coffee. Her term paper is due in a week but she isn’t waiting until the last minute to finish it up. No, she is taking her time and putting her heart into it — which is something she does with everything she does. She saw a Snap on Snapchat about parents bribing people to get their kids into exclusive colleges and for a minute, she was at a crossroads. She felt a wave of anger rise up in her stomach just thinking about someone getting an advantage over her. Had that person stayed home on Friday nights trying to learn AP Calculus and AP Chemistry? Had that person worked a part-job and saved money for college? Had that person cried when the community college scholarship arrived in the mail and then cried again when the scholarship to the local university did too? No. But the student quickly took a breath and pushed those thoughts away. Jealousy, envy, anger were all a fool’s emotions. She didn’t have enough energy for them and they didn’t fit into her plan. She was going to be a doctor. And while she would not go into Harvard Medical School, she would become one of the finest oncologists in the world. Her formable work-ethic and raw drive overcame any lack of connections her divorced mom might have had. And one day, in the irony of ironies, she ended up saving the life of one of the kids whose parents bribed her into college. As her healed patient walked out the door, she said, “Thank God I am rich. It’s the only way to know the very best at what they do.”
