Brenton Johnson didn't start out trying to run the biggest organic farm in Texas. He just had a backyard. In 2004, that backyard in Austin's Holly Street neighborhood was basically an experiment in how much produce one guy could squeeze out of a city lot. He was an engineer by trade, working for the government, but he spent his off-hours hauling compost and obsessing over heirloom tomatoes.
It grew fast.
People always talk about "organic growth" in business, but for the Johnson's Backyard Garden owner, it was literal. Brenton went from selling a few boxes of veggies to neighbors to managing hundreds of acres and a massive Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) program that, at its peak, served thousands of households across the state. But if you’ve tried to find a JBG carrot lately, you know the fields are quiet. The rise and eventual fall of JBG isn't just a story about farming; it's a cautionary tale about the brutal economics of local food and the weight of being the face of a movement.
From Holly Street to Garfield: The Expansion Phase
Brenton Johnson is a complicated figure in the Texas agricultural scene. He’s known for being incredibly hard-working, sometimes to a fault. When the garden outgrew the backyard, he moved operations to a larger plot on Hergotz Lane, and eventually to a massive 186-acre spread in Garfield, Texas.
He was everywhere. You’d see him at the downtown Austin farmers market, tall and usually wearing a sweat-stained cap, talking passionately about soil health. He wasn't just a manager; he was a guy who knew his tractors. That engineering background helped him build a high-tech irrigation system that most small organic farmers could only dream of.
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Success came with massive overhead.
Running a CSA is a logistical nightmare. You aren't just growing food; you're a trucking company, a customer service center, and a marketing agency. JBG was delivering to Austin, San Antonio, Houston, and Dallas. Think about the fuel alone. Brenton pushed the farm to operate at a scale that very few organic operations in the South ever reach. He wanted organic food to be accessible, not just a luxury for people with $90 to spend on a whim.
The Struggle of the Johnson's Backyard Garden Owner
By 2020, things were getting shaky. Managing a staff of over 100 people is a different beast than weeding a garden. There were rumblings about labor disputes and the difficulty of keeping up with the sheer volume of orders. Then, the pandemic hit.
At first, COVID-19 looked like a boon for JBG. Everyone was stuck at home, terrified of grocery stores, and desperate for home-delivered kale. The CSA numbers spiked. But the infrastructure couldn't hold the weight. It’s one thing to have a lot of customers; it’s another to have the labor to harvest, pack, and drive that food to their doors when the world is upside down.
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Then came "Uri."
The 2021 Texas winter storm was a death blow for many local growers. For the Johnson's Backyard Garden owner, the losses were catastrophic. We're talking about acres of crops frozen solid in the field. When you operate at that scale, a total crop loss isn't just a bad month—it’s a financial crater. Brenton tried to pivot. He tried to keep the wheels turning, but the debt and the logistical hurdles were mounting.
Why the Farm Finally Stopped
In early 2022, the news hit the Austin community like a ton of bricks: JBG was suspending operations. There wasn't a big, flashy press release. It was more of a quiet, painful realization that the math no longer worked.
Labor costs in Central Texas have skyrocketed. Land prices are even worse. If you’re a farmer sitting on nearly 200 acres of land near a rapidly expanding city like Austin, the "highest and best use" of that land—according to banks and developers—isn't growing spinach. It's houses.
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Honestly, the pressure on Brenton must have been immense. Being the Johnson's Backyard Garden owner meant being responsible for the livelihoods of dozens of immigrant workers and the weekly dinners of thousands of families. When the farm went up for auction, it marked the end of an era. The equipment—the tractors Brenton loved, the cooling systems, the delivery vans—was sold off piece by piece.
It’s a gritty reality. Most people want to support local farms, but they also want their produce to be cheap and perfectly shaped. You can't have both. JBG tried to bridge that gap by scaling up, but the overhead of that scale eventually ate the mission alive.
Lessons from the JBG Legacy
Even though the farm is gone, Brenton’s impact is still visible. Most of the organic farmers currently working the Austin area either worked for him or were inspired by the CSA model he popularized. He proved there was a massive demand for local food in Texas; he just also proved how expensive it is to meet that demand.
If you’re looking to support local agriculture now, the "JBG model" has shifted. Most experts now suggest that smaller, more diversified farms are more resilient than the massive "single-owner" mega-farms.
What You Can Do Now
- Support smaller CSAs: Instead of one giant farm, look for "multi-farm" CSAs that aggregate produce from several small growers. This spreads the risk. If one farm freezes, the whole box doesn't disappear.
- Understand the "True Cost": When you see a $5 head of lettuce at a farmers market, remember the Johnson's Backyard Garden owner story. That price includes labor, water, fuel, and the risk of total loss.
- Advocate for land preservation: Austin is losing farmland at an alarming rate. Support organizations like the Texas Land Conservancy that help keep agricultural land from being turned into strip malls.
- Know your farmer: If you go to a market, ask who grew the food. Brenton was always there. The next generation of farmers needs that same face-to-face connection to survive.
The story of JBG isn't a failure, really. It was a massive, decades-long achievement that simply hit the ceiling of what is possible for a private organic farm in the current Texas economy. Brenton Johnson took a backyard hobby and turned it into a regional powerhouse. That’s more than most people ever do with a packet of seeds.