Later, as we neared Jackson, we pulled off impulsively at a sign for “the world’s only cactus plantation.” Further signs brought us to increasingly narrow, canopied roads, the last of which was unpaved and pooled to a dead end in front of a shaded wooden home and a series of greenhouses, with a garden separating them. Nobody was around, so we dismounted and poked around for a few minutes. I found myself underwhelmed. My imagination had translated “cactus plantation” into an image of a stately colonial manse presiding over acres and acres of tall, spiny Saguaros. The slightly shredded tarps of the greenhouse did not seem imperial enough to be a “plantation”; this was really more of a nursery. But then, tourists come to Mississippi to see plantations, and I doubt whether a cactus nursery would have drawn as many Yankees off the highway, even as the “world’s only.”
“Howdy there,” an old man quietly hollered from the garden, shuffling toward us and flanked by a small regiment of enthusiastic dogs.
“Hi,” I said. “Is this the world’s only cactus plantation?”
“It is, welcome.” The man’s eyes were bloodshot, and they sagged as though he had just woken from a long nap. He wore flannel and denim despite the humidity, and walked deliberately with a slightly bent-over gait. I put him just shy of 80. His name was John Thomas.
Despite his weary disposition, John seemed excited to have us. I got the impression that he didn’t get too many visitors to the world’s only cactus farm, despite its sensational roadside advertisements, and he toured us through his collection of bromeliads and various species of small, potted cacti with the quiet pride of a grandfather showing off photographs of his grandchildren.
“I had this one for 30 years,” he said, pointing to a stocky stump of a cactus with a tall, thin stalk issuing from its prickly crown. “It just bloomed about a week ago.” He pointed to the stalk. “That’s about nine feet, in oh, let’s see—six days.” We marveled genuinely. That was a foot and a half per day.
“Yes sir,” John said in his soft, viscous drawl. “The Lord made some stuff.”
Posted from Victoria Falls Drive, Spring, Texas.
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