Willard E. Garrett was born on June 16, 1952, in Forrest, Mississippi. He grew up on a farm in Clear Branch, where he learned the value of hard work and self-reliance and where he discovered what would become his guiding philosophy--that repairing your own stuff is a path to understanding the world and yourself--lessons that he tried to pass on to his children and grandchildren.

In 1972, he was drafted into the U.S. Army, where he served for two years. He later earned his MBA from the University of Southern Mississippi and became a CPA through George Washington University. He went on to serve ten years as a field accountant for the USDA Rural Electric Association in Arkansas. There, on Billy Goat Mountain, he and a group of fellow travelers established a beloved community that persists to this day, stretching from Arkansas to Florida to Okinawa.

In time, he joined USAID as an advisor in Bangladesh, where he played a role in bringing electricity to remote villages—quietly improving lives in ways most of us will never see. In later life, he served as an agricultural advisor in Afghanistan, surviving Taliban IEDs to deliver farming advice to the Afghan people, all the while making life-long connections. (The rumor persists—even among those in his own family—that he might have been a secret agent. But I can tell you conclusively... that I don’t know.)

He eventually returned, with his family, to Mississippi, where he continued his work with the government, allegedly with the USDA. Years later, he received unexpected news: he had a son he had never known. What could have been a shock became a profound blessing—one that grew to include great-grandchildren and a deepening of family.

Papi believed in the God of second chances, the Jesus of the downtrodden, and the Buddha of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. He had no patience for shoddy workmanship, incompetent drivers, or those who used religion as a vehicle for hatred. He preferred the company of wounded warriors to that of the wealthy. Things he loved: watching the mist rise off the Pearl River; old westerns; riding a Harley on the open highway; Belarus tractors; playing with his grandchildren; and communing with those he credited with saving his life—the friends of Bill. He believed that there is no death and that consciousness (or God) permeates the universe and can be found in the gasket of a carburetor as well as the birth of a child or the transcendence of a sunset.

He died as he lived—with strength and grace and on his own terms—on April 8, 2026.