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.
