The Lost Choice (10 page)

Henry Wallace closed one eye and tilted his head back. With one hand out in front of him as if he were trying to pluck the words from his memory, he said,“Ahhhmmm . . . ohhhhhh . . . shoot!
Ambrosia
something?”

“That's right. Do you remember the rest of it?”

The boy screwed up his face again, but came up empty. “I don't,” he said.“Tell me one more time.”

“Ambrosia artemisiifolia
.
”

“Right!
Artemisiifolia
.
Ambrosia artemisiifolia!
I got it!”

“I'm sure you do,” George said.“Now let's get moving. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

After several hours, George gestured toward a huge oak tree on the bank of a stream and said, “You ready for a sandwich? I'm hungry. I hope you can tell me the formal name of those dandelions over there—because that's the password that unlocks
your
bag of food!”

“Taraxacum officinale,”
the boy said at once. Then, placing his hand on the black man's arm, added,“And . . . it is edible and medicinal.”

George chuckled as he turned and headed for the shade of the big tree.“Lord! You buckin' for a bite of
my
sandwich!”

In the shadow of the green canopy, they took off their shoes and shirts and, dangling their feet in the cool, shallow water of the stream, unwrapped a simple lunch. “Let me see . . . ,” George said.“You want a cheese sandwich— or a cheese sandwich?”

“Cheese,” Henry grinned.

They ate in silence for several moments, enjoying the comfort of this place they'd found. The leafy ceiling invited a breeze through their natural dining room that gently cooled them as they rested. Soon though, Henry was asking questions about every green thing within reach. George had grown to love the child and was proud that Henry's father trusted him with the boy. It was a responsibility that he did not take lightly, and he relished his role as a mentor.

“George?” the boy asked.“Where did you get the food stone?”

George sighed. “Henry, you have heard that story a thousand times.”

“I know,” the boy said excitedly, “but I like to hear it. Please, can I wear it again while you tell me?”

“
May
I . . .”

“
May
I wear it again while you tell me? Please?”

“Okay,” George said resignedly as he pulled the leather cord attached to the oddly shaped object from around his neck. Before placing it over the head of the child, George asked a question. “Henry, do you pledge to do something special with your life?”

“I do,” the boy nodded solemnly.

“Then here you go.” George put the strange necklace on the child and began to speak. It was a simple story, and having told it to the boy so many times, he attempted an abbreviated version.“My daddy wore the food stone—”

“In Africa,” Henry interrupted.

“Yes, in Africa. He wore the food stone in Africa. Then, when he was brought here—”

“He still had it and he always wore it and nobody took it from him,” the boy said in a rush.

George opened his eyes wide and turned his head to look directly at the boy.“And then when . . .” He waited.

Henry spoke instantly.“And then when your real daddy was killed, your other daddy,Mr. Carver, got the food stone and gave it to you. And he gave it to you because he said you were created for something special and that the food stone was a gift from a father to his son.”

George stared at Henry for a moment, then spoke.“Do you like it when I tell you that story?”

The boy answered, “I do,” and they lay back on the ground and laughed.

For a time, the two rested there in the grass beside the stream. George had rolled over onto his stomach and was examining a tiny patch of watercress growing on the bank. Meanwhile Henry had stayed on his back and, with the cord still around his neck, was deep in concentration as he held the food stone close to his face.“How long have you worn it?” he asked.

George tossed a pebble into the water. “Since I was a baby, I suppose. Truth is, I don't recall
not
wearing it.”

“Why
do
you wear it though?”

George swiveled onto his side and propped his head with a hand. “Because it came from my father,” he said. “My daddy wore it his whole life, and though I never knew him, I suspect he was a special man.”

Henry seemed to consider this, then asked, “Was he a special man because he wore the food stone?”

“No, child,” George said carefully.“He was a special man because he decided to be.”

“George?”The child moved to a sitting position facing his friend. His legs were crossed “Indian style” as he leaned forward with the object and indicated the markings on one side.“Do you know what this says?”

“Yes,” George replied. “It says, ‘Henry Wallace will be a great man. His life will make a difference in this world, because he will always choose to make a difference.'”

“Wow! Really?” Henry asked.

“That's it,” George said. “That stone you hold says the same thing to me. It represents my father reminding me every day that I am important—that I have a mission in my life.”

“What is your mission?”

“Henry, my mission is to learn to do common things uncommonly well and to use those skills and that knowledge to change the lives of those less fortunate than myself. And I'm going to do that with plants. People're starving, child, and anything that helps fill the dinner pail is valuable.” “That's my mission too,” the boy said earnestly. “Will you help me?”

“Of course,” George responded. “As you grow up, remember that you have worn the food stone and pledged to do something special with your life. You won't always have George around, but that won't matter. Because
you
have been made to make a difference. And I believe that you will.”

SEVEN

TUSKEGEE, ALABAMA—AUGUST 1914

THE AIR WAS THICK. THE TWO MEN, FACING EACH other with only a desk between them, talked in harsh whispers. At two o'clock in the afternoon, the thermometer outside the administration building had reached 102 degrees; however, it wasn't the heat or humidity in the president's office that had negatively affected the atmosphere. The tension, on this day, not only trumped the heat but created a climate of intensity that was quickly becoming unbearable.

When Booker Taliaferro Washington had arrived to take the helm of Tuskegee Institute in 1881, he had no buildings, no students, and no teachers. In a few short years, starting with an appropriation of just two thousand dollars from the Alabama State Legislature, he had created the premier black educational establishment in the nation. Luring the brilliant, but infuriating, man who now sat before him to the campus as a teacher had been one of his greatest successes and a primary reason for the school's considerable growth.

In April of 1896, George Carver, then a professor at Iowa State and already reputed to be a scientific prodigy of immense proportions, received an interesting offer from the renowned educator. In his letter,Dr.Washington wrote, “I cannot offer you money, position, or fame. The first two you have. The last, from the position you now occupy, you will no doubt achieve. These things I now ask you to give up. I offer you in their place: work—hard, hard work, the task of bringing a people from degradation, poverty, and waste to full manhood. Your department exists only on paper and your laboratory will have to be in your head.”

Carver's acceptance was immediate, and after fulfilling his obligations at Iowa State, he turned his attention to Dr. Washington's challenge. He arrived at the rail station in Chehaw, Alabama, in early October and was taken to the campus in Tuskegee by wagon. There, the professor unpacked his microscope, assorted chemicals, and his one suit. Dr.Washington had personally escorted him to the one-room apartment he would call home, watching closely for any sign that his newest faculty member might suddenly change his mind and flee. But, of course, there was none.

Through the course of several years, Professor Carver's classes—which included botany, chemistry, and soil study— evolved into the Department of Scientific Agriculture. The teacher became an inventor, creating new varieties of plants and fertilizers. He taught farmers and their families how to preserve foods for the winter and produced recipes and menus that introduced balanced diets and increased vitality to the poor.

It was Carver's latest discovery, however, that had now embroiled Tuskegee Institute in controversy and convinced Dr. Booker T.Washington that the school was in trouble. The fifty-eight-year-old Washington perspired profusely as he tried to ignore the afternoon heat. He leaned forward and spoke to the most admired member of his faculty.

“Professor Carver . . . George . . . what have we done?”

“Well, Dr. Washington,” Carver answered in his high, raspy voice, “I don't think
we
have done anything. You are certainly not to blame for any consternation on the part of the farmers. It seems that this is entirely my doing.” George clasped his hands in his lap, not nervously, for he wasn't nervous, but in the manner of one exhibiting extreme patience.

The president shook his head. “It's not just our people, George. The white farmers are afraid too.” He glanced around and lowered his voice even more.“We're receiving threats. You . . . and the school. And the State Agricultural Board is sending an investigative delegation tomorrow morning. George—they could shut us down.” He rubbed his face with his hands.“My Lord . . . I never saw this coming . . . I have been traveling so much . . .” Drawing a deep breath, he said, “Take me back to the beginning here. Maybe we can figure out what to do. Why in the world did they plant so many peanuts in the first place?”

“Dr. Washington, you know I appreciate the level of trust you've placed in me over the years.” George wiped his brow. “You've never second-guessed me or watched over my shoulder. And you know that I've always had the best interest of the farmer in mind—even when I'm dealing with the students.”Washington nodded patiently.“But that degree of trust has naturally placed you in a position of being somewhat uninformed in regards to my daily efforts. Do you remember that barren twenty-one-acre tract on the east boundary of campus? It was donated to the school four years ago.”

“Yes, I remember,”Washington replied. “It was given to us because it was worthless.”

“That's right,” George confirmed.“I checked the county records. The last planting of cotton, it produced forty-four pounds per acre. That was four years ago—the soil was worn out. On a small scale, I had been experimenting with naturally produced fertilizer for some time. This, I saw, was an opportunity to step up the research.”

As George took a breath, the president broke in.“Naturally produced fertilizer? I'm not following you . . . and are we getting to the peanuts?”

George cleared his throat. “Yes, Dr.Washington, we are. Most fertilizer has, as its basis, nitrogen. Legumes—plants like cow peas and peanuts—are plants that have nitrogen-producing bacteria on their roots. Simply explained, the bacteria removes nitrogen from the air and distributes it through the root system into the soil, which becomes enriched.”

“So, am I to assume that you planted peanuts on that barren plot?”

“Yes, sir. Peanuts. For two years we planted peanuts. The third year, we planted that same twenty-one acres in cotton again.” George paused and watched the president of the college,waiting for the question he knew would come. “And?” Dr.Washington drew out the word, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice.

“And, in the third year, that twenty-one-acre parcel of land produced almost eleven thousand pounds of cotton. By the way, the math on that works out to more than five hundred pounds of cotton per acre.”

Dr. Washington was incredulous. Leaning forward, he looked around quickly as if to conceal a secret and said, “Does anyone else know about this?”

“Of course!” Carver exclaimed. “I made certain that every farmer between Montgomery and Columbus saw the field with their own eyes. That's why they planted the peanuts!”

Dr.Washington fell back in his chair and exhaled. He peered out the window and nervously rapped his knuckles on the desk. Then he stood and, walking around the desk to George, sat on its corner and said,“I want to make sure I have this straight. You convinced every farmer within a hundred miles of here to plant peanuts because their soil was worn out.”

“The soil
was
worn out,” George insisted.“It was—”

Dr.Washington held up his hand. “Let me finish,” he said. He took a deep breath to compose himself and continued. “Long story short, these men planted all their fields in peanuts. Now they have thousands of pounds— tons—of peanuts, and there is no market for their crop. Is that correct?”

“At this moment, yes,”Carver responded.“That is correct.”

The president stood and slammed his fist on the desk. Shoving his face into the face of the younger man, he growled, “Holy God, man! Do you not understand what this means to this university? These white farmers hold our very lives in their hands! We only exist because of the gracious favor of the state legislature, and now we have potentially ruined a third of the farming families in this state!”

“Dr. Washington,” George said softly, “those farmers would have been ruined within the year in any case. People would have starved.”

Washington slammed his hand down on the desk again and cursed. “But not by our hand!” he shouted. “They would not have starved by
our
hand!”

For several long moments, both men were silent. The college president stalked around the office glowering at the professor who continued to annoy him by remaining calm. Before too long, however, George Carver spoke. When he did, it was with a gentle voice. “Dr.Washington, I have admired you for many years. From you, I have learned to deal with the ups and downs of life. You told me when I came here that ‘character, not circumstances, makes the man.'What we have here, sir, is a circumstance.