Eighty years or so after he posed for a photo, my Grandfather Hisakichi is in an American book.
Standing “Marine-esque” in his Seattle barbershop.
Incredible to me.
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I had come to know Rob Ketcherside from flickr. We had helped each other out looking at some old photos he had of Seattle – where all my aunts and uncles were born (except one). He had some fascinating tidbits on some of my Grandmother’s photos.
Well, it turned out he was an author. He had been doing a ton of research into “lost Seattle” – skylines and communities now long gone. With his fascination for “what was” (me, too!), those sights are now basking in sunlight once again through this mesmerizing book.
It was boosting to me when he asked if he could use one of the family’s vintage photos in his book; specifically, the photo of my grandfather’s barbershop. It is on loan to me from my cousin Masako (yes, the Masako after whom my blog is named) who luckily kept these family treasures all these years. It is more wonderful in that the home in which the photos were in survived the atomic blast – as did my family.
I hope Rob (and his publisher) don’t mind a couple of pages of his book are shown herein…and I’ll be picking up a few more copies to take back to Hiroshima in a few weeks.
In the description below, Rob also mentions Masahiro Furuya and his business. As it turns out, both my dad’s oldest brother Yutaka and his best friend John Tanaka worked for Furuya… And yes, that is the same John Tanaka my Aunt Shiz married. Small world, yes? Actually, Uncle Yutaka was the matchmaker.
A close up of his photo caption from above:
Grandfather is standing at the right-rear of his barbershop. And the photo is a full pager in Rob’s book! Cool! Grandfather should be pleased. In the original print, you can see the brand names of the hair tonics popular at that time. The gal in the middle was quite a cutie, too. I wonder what happened to her. If she was still there in Seattle when war broke out, it is likely she went to the same prison camp my dad and uncle were incarcerated in.
On an interesting note, the consensus is the calendar shows January 9, 1930.
In concert with Rob’s massive research effort, gone is my father’s precious Hotel Fujii and my grandfather’s pride and joy barber shop. It was demolished to make room for “Hing Hay Park” taking its place.
Grandfather Hisakichi holding Aunt Shiz in front of the barbershop. Circa 1918.Dad on right with his youngest brother Suetaro in front of the barbershop (circa 1922). They are likely standing where the label “Hing Hay Park” is on the map above. As readers know, Uncle Suetaro was killed as a Japanese soldier by the US Army on Leyte on July 15, 1945. Dad was imprisoned in Minidoka, ID at the time of his death.
Eighty years later.
My gosh.
And like the barbershop and Hotel Fujii, my dad is the last one standing out of seven siblings and two courageous grandparents.
Thanks, Masako-san and Rob.
I kinda wish my grandparents could have seen this.
Marge and I at Riverside National Cemetery, Memorial Day Weekend 2013
A LETTER…
[Please also see “Mr. Johnson, USMC” if you wish to learn the background of this couple from the Greatest Generation by clicking on the link.]
Dear Marge,
Well, Marge, you made it indeed… To see your beloved husband Johnnie for Memorial Day.
A heroic US Marine who fought on-board the USS Enterprise in World War II.
Decorated.
And he was but 17 years old when he set sail for the Battle of Midway.
Seventeen. You said he was still in high school when he signed up for the Marines. Unbelievable.
We were met by thousands of American flags being planted by hundreds of Boy Scouts and volunteers. You were so happy to see the red, white and blue saturating the cemetery, bit by bit.
While the Boy Scouts hadn’t made it to your husband’s resting place yet, we had our own little flag… and your beautiful bouquet we were able to pick up along the way. You were so pleased with them but we made it a promise the next bouquet will be the colors of the USMC – scarlett and gold. You knew he would like that. Yes you did.
It was only the Saturday before Memorial Day but you were so elated to see how many people were there already…and we arrived at 10:00 AM! You were worried we wouldn’t be able to find a place to park when someone upstairs opened one up for us.
You were so anxious to visit him that you made it out of my car in record time and walked as quickly as you could!
While you used your stroller to get to the general area of his grave site, we had to leave the stroller and walk the last twenty yards on very saturated ground. You were holding onto my arm so tightly as the muddy earth gave way as we walked. Remember? My shoe sunk into the soil and inch or more.
And when we got there, we couldn’t find any water decanters… They were all being used by the hundreds of other mourners…but by some lucky grace, we ran into Vicky… She had bought 1,000 beautiful flags on her own and her niece was placing them neatly all along the columbine. She went out of her way to find one for you!
Vicki and her niece holding another bunch of the 1,000 flags she had bought to place along the columbine.Some of the 1,000 flags purchased by Vicki and placed by her niece for our fallen.
Your bouquet was so beautiful, Marge. You said quietly Johnnie – your husband of 66-1/2 years – would like them so much. You miss him dearly, don’t you Marge? I miss him…
And like the last time, on Easter Sunday, you talked with him…
She is talking to Johnnie… True love and devotion…
You shared with me again of how he left your life…and you were there for him til the very end… and how alone you felt because you are the last one alive from amongst your friends. There is no one else. You said you still look for Johnnie at your assisted senior care center to ask him a question but he doesn’t answer…
Thriving love…
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We promised to go back in two months, yes?
I will be calling you because he means so much to you… and it means so much to me.
I wish people would understand your love and devotion.
Marge and Mr. Johnson on their wedding day in June 1945.
My father’s decades old story about how he broke his elbow became the topic in the earlier story, “正覚時” (Shoukakuji).
Shoukakuji is the name of the Buddhist temple – a hop, skip and a jump from my father’s family home in Hiroshima.
Temple entrance. My father’s home is behind me and to the right.
The temple’s reverends supported my family’s religious needs for over a century now.
Aunt Michie’s wedding.
Funeral services for my grandparents and my father’s siblings. Including my Aunt Shiz just this last September in “The Spirit of Aunt Shiz and Kharma“.
Including my Uncle Suetaro who was killed in action as an Imperial Japanese Army soldier on Leyte in the Philippines.
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When Masako-san, my son Takeshi and I walked to the temple in 2013 to investigate my dad’s story of how he broke his elbow, we were greeted by the Reverend. He was 90 years old and still had his wits about him.
While he did not recollect my father, he validated the placement of a large round rock under the pine tree that hasn’t been touched for as long as he’s lived at the temple…. And that’s a loooong time. I’m sure he was born there.
And that there was a big branch of a pine tree that has since broken off recently.
He said he knew my Aunt Mieko who died in 1939.
And miraculously, he mentioned Uncle Suetaro. The reverend said they played together as children and that he was always a jokester and smiling…and that he could hear him playing his “fue”, or flute, from his second story room at the house.
Until then, not even Masako-san knew Uncle Suetaro played a flute…but there was no proof.
Just the recollection of a 90 year old reverend.
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My tennis elbow pain kept me from retouching the old vintage photographs I had brought back from Hiroshima last September.
And the project was at a standstill since late October. That was as depressing as Obama V2.0.
But from three weeks ago, I am attempting to slowly restart the retouching project as my elbow pain has subsided greatly…and I came across the group photo you saw at the beginning here.
This was the backside since I know you ALL can read ancient Japanese:
Written by Uncle Suetaro himself. I believe – BELIEVE – it says, “February 21, 1939. Performed for First Sino-Japanese War anniversary.”
As retouched:
As retouched. Uncle Suetaro is the slightly taller one just to the left of center. If you click on the image, it will enlarge. Look in his right hand.
But as I enlarged the image to begin retouching, something caught my (old) eye.
I noticed Uncle Suetaro was clutching something in his right hand.
A case.
A case more slender than the others in the group picture.
It’s not a trumpet or a trombone, that’s for sure.
Or for a cue stick.
It sure looks like a flute case.
Oh, heck. It IS a flute case.
I say so.
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So words from the mouth of an old reverend started an eighty year old circle… to this vintage photograph of young boys.
All of whom likely lost their lives in a violent war.
Gyoza anyone? I guess we call them “dumplings” here in the US of A…
Simple to make.
Tastes great (or at least that’s what my kids say).
And it’s FREEEEE at Chez Mustang.Koji’s! LOL
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Completed gyoza
Ingredients:
Ground pork (kurobuta type preferred!)
Green onions
Napa cabbage or regular cabbage is just as fine
Sesame oil
Crushed garlic (raw)
Sugar
Salt and pepper
Shredded ginger if you like
Chopped water chestnuts if you like
Do not press meat mixture.
Combine ingredients but do not press. Spoon about a tablespoon of mixture into gyoza skin. Fold. Add a touch of oil to coat bottom of cast iron skillet (non-stick does not work!), medium high heat. Cover, add about 2-3 tablespoons of water to steam. Remove when botton is browned.
Serve with a dipping sauce made of soy sauce, “ra-yu” or chili oil, and Japanese vinegar if you like.
I figured if Mr. Johnson wanted to tell me more, he would have.
But as with Old Man Jack, I never asked for more.
I believe that’s how these combat vets want it.
They don’t want to be quizzed about what they said or asked to describe more.
They will tell you some things of what they experienced. Probably to let the devils out that have been eating away at them for 70 years.
They have a built in limiter to keep more memories from popping back up…the things they saw or did that they try so hard to suppress to stay sane. Every minute for the rest of their lives.
They deserve that respect. Always. And you feel honored they felt enough confidence in your character that you would accept what they were telling you as is.
I feel they appreciated that.
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I was alone with Old Man Jack during visitation. It was good as I was able to say good-bye in private… The mortuary didn’t invest in good quality Kleenex, though.
Mr. Johnson and I walked together into the little chapel where Old Man Jack’s funeral service was being held. His flag-draped coffin was proudly presented up front.
It was mostly relatives as all his friends had passed away before him. I felt distant as I don’t recall ever seeing them visiting with Old Man Jack. But they were relatives.
Mr. Johnson and I were likely the only ones there outside of family besides a daughter of one of his fellow employees from the old Northrop plant. We had met once when Old Man Jack was in ICU from a tremendously bad intestinal infection.
His only daughter Karen was busy going over things with the reverend. You will have to excuse me if I used the wrong term for him; it was a Christian service and I am not.
Mr. Johnson and I sat next to each other in the back row.
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Here is Old Man Jack on our tiny patio deck, in his trademark blue plaid shirt losing another “chat” with his only child, Karen. I’m sure – in spite of his boasts – he lost to his lovely wife in a similar fashion through the years… Hence, “A man ain’t got a chance.“
Karen finally approached us. It was good to see her again. I hadn’t seen her since she moved Old Man Jack up to their mountain home just five months earlier.
We greeted and it was already tough not to shed a tear. She then said, “Koji, we have enough young relatives here to be pallbearers but I know you and dad were close. I think he would like it very much if you would be one of his pallbearers.”
I looked at Mr. Johnson. I guess I was unknowingly seeking his acceptance knowing they both fought a bitter war together.
Mr. Johnson smiled and nodded his head as if he knew I was asking him if it would be OK.
It was emotional. My eye plumbing was already leaking a bit before but it broke loose.
After Old Man Jack fought on “those stinkin’ islands” and had nightmares for the remainder of his life, I was now going to help carry this great American on his last journey.
I kept the gloves in memory of Old Man Jack and the honor he allowed me.
It is a mark of the Greatest Generation. Forgiveness. Honor to the end.
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Just a short vid of the flag presentation to Jack’s daughter. (I apologize for the video quality but they only sell the video cameras with the little swing out screen now. It’s hard to get used to and hard to see the image in bright sun…and impossible to hold still…but towards the end, you can see Mr. Johnson sitting right behind her.)
I wondered what was going through Mr. Johnson’s mind after saying to me earlier “…funerals don’t do a damn thing for me anymore”.
He didn’t get teary-eyed once. A true Marine, I thought. I also briefly felt he had his mind on other pressing matters.
I was about to find out.
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After the ceremony, I helped Mr. Johnson back to my car. He hadn’t said much at all nor showed ANY emotion.
I opened the car door for him; it would be a struggle for him to get back into my low-slung machine with his bad back and unsteady legs.
But he stopped short of getting in. He towered over the roof of the car as he was standing on the curb next to other graves. I remember clearly his right arm was on the roof of the car and his left was seeking support from the top of the passenger door glass.
Then he spoke.
“Koji, I’m sorry I was so curt with you in the car…when I said funerals don’t do a damn for me anymore. I hope you’ll let me explain why.”
I didn’t know what was coming. He continued but he had that look on his face. The same glassed-over gaze Old Man Jack had when he was going to talk about something he was trying to forget.
“Koji, the Japs jumped us and they jumped us good. Real good. We were caught out in the open. We had fighter cover but there was just a shit load of them. Just too many. They were coming down at us from every which way.”
He mimicked with his right hand that he had elevated towards the sky toy planes – just like we did when we were kids. But these weren’t toys that day. He was reliving a battle…but he didn’t say where or when. Just like Old Man Jack.
“They just kept coming and coming. We took a bad licking. A real bad one. We just kept reloading and firing at them.
We lost a lot of good men.”
He stopped for a moment. He never once said he was on the Big E.
“I got put in charge of the Burial Detail. There weren’t too many of us left that could get around.” He was, I assume, talking about his fellow Marines. He was a Private at that time and at the Battle of Santa Cruz; you will find out later how I discovered that. But it’s not good when a young Marine private who was in boot camp just months earlier gets put in charge of a burial detail on board the greatest lady of the sea.
“I don’t know who the son-of-a-bitches were. They were wrapped up in canvas and a shell would be put inside at their feet to weight them down. Then we’d dump them over the side. We’d salute. Then we’d do it again…and again…and again. I don’t remember how many times I saluted. I didn’t keep count. But that’s why funerals don’t do much for me anymore. I had been in enough of them.”
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I was left humbled and voiceless. Too late I realized Mr. Johnson WAS having sickening thoughts running through his mind – from the time when I asked him to help hold ME together.
And I was ignorant to even think he had his mind on other pressing matters during the funeral.
With that selfish request, I instead helped unleash some vile memories within him.
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Mr. Johnson himself would pass away shortly thereafter.
More to come in Part IV. I hope you’ll stay tuned.
But you have to be obsessed…when time is working against you.
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A single page from my Grandmother’s precious photo album
Retouching faded or damaged family photographs can become a labor of love.
Perhaps the finished product is meaningless to people outside of your family. Maybe to some within your own family as well. But somehow, you become obsessed with it because in spite what others feel, you know in your heart it is important… and perhaps more important as the years roll by.
Family members come into this world, live, then pass on. How did they live? Where? What was it like “back then”?
That’s my mission. To leave hints of what it was like for my descendants as well as interested family.
To let others see what “they” looked like. How “they” smiled. How “they” grew up.
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The first snapshot above is but a page from my Grandmother Kono’s photo album.
Brittle pages. Photos that were lovingly pasted onto those pages by my Grandmother. Photos now eaten by insects. Faded. Damaged.
Now is the time. Restore and retouch. Hundreds of them. That’s the mission. Before all knowledge of their lives disappear.
They are disappearing today.
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Having but free software, the retouching being done is surely amateur. Basic at the best. I wish I could afford professional software but then again, there would be a tremendous learning curve. Make do with what you have…as “they” did.
And when you finish one photograph, you receive gifts. Gifts of seeing what would have been lost. Lost to their descendents forever.
Here is one example from that page:
(L to R) Suetaro, my dad, Aunt Shiz and an unknown friend. Circa 1923 at 620 S. King Street in Seattle, WA.
While the detail is surely not “lost”, it is hard to make out things. The print is small to begin with; a quarter was placed for size reference.
But after restoring and retouching, some fun things come into clearer view – especially if there is a companion print to compare with:
In another pose on the same album page, you can see both my dad and Suetaro were holding food in their hands and dad had a bandaged thumb. Here, after restoration, you can more clearly see the food but it blends into his bandaged thumb which would have been hard to separate. I’m pretty sure Dad is eating an “onigiri” or rice ball, likely wrapped in seaweed. Uncle Suetaro had already devoured his. Minor detail, yes. But now we have an idea of what Grandmother fed them in Seattle while growing up.
Aunt Shiz…well, it appears she would rather have been playing with her friend but we know she wore a uniform to school. And she has a hair clip. Berets for boys were in fashion, also, it seems. Funny as Dad doesn’t like to wear hats much. We also know that on that day, they wore very Western clothes…down to his overalls.
One barber pole is also different than the other. When dad saw this today, for some reason, he just proudly blurted out, “620 S. King Street”, and very happily. I think he was amazed at himself for remembering. But the confirmation of the address came from retouching the print. He also said, “That’s wood (referring to the sidewalk),” implying he doesn’t remember a wooden sidewalk. But I mentioned to him it was cement when you look at it carefully and he was happy that he wasn’t a “pumpkin head”.
From this retouched print, Dad also added one startling comment out of the blue. He said a number of “hakujin”, or Caucasians, came to the shop, even though it was in “Japanese Town”. I asked him why. His reply was, “I don’t know… but Japanese are more attentive, I guess, than the other barbers…especially in shaving.” I know what he means.
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So all this “stuff” came from retouching a faded photo… Things that would have been otherwise lost. Face it. Dad isn’t the little boy eating that onigiri anymore. But he still eats like a horse. A good sign. Aunt Shiz didn’t feel like eating much the day she quietly passed away.
One of the finds from the 100 year old shed were photos from my Grandfather Hisakichi’s barbershop. It would appear these are from about 1917 through 1930.
His shop was in the Hotel Fujii at 620 South King Street in Seattle, WA. Being raised here in America, it is not only striking to see my grandparent’s barbershop but it is so unlike those of other barbershop photographs of that time being manned by “non-Caucasians”. Is that best way of putting it? You can see the hair tonics that were used as well as the Koch porcelain barber chairs. Through the help of my friends interested in WWII history, we believe the calendar indicates shows “Thursday, October 9, 1930”.
Grandfather Hisakichi is at right. Due to the blur, we are uncertain if the lady on the left is Grandmother Kono…but the gal in the center is very attractive.
In this picture below, a “no nonsense” Grandfather Hisakichi is holding my Aunt Shiz; this would put the photo as being taken in 1917.
According to my dad a couple of weeks ago, Grandfather would work the shop by himself during the slow times but would bring in others as the season changed. They lived upstairs in a room at the hotel.
It is difficult to imagine he supported the family with this one barber shop but you would think he worked hard and was a sound businessman in a foreign country.
Oh… Since WWI was raging, he registered for the draft.
The last known photo of my Uncle Suetaro. He did not return from Leyte during the final stages of World War II. My Grandmother Kono – having suffered a stroke – is propped up by Japanese “shiki-futon” for the picture. Taken in Hiroshima, 1944.
Yes, a small percentage of Japanese soldiers were anxious to die for their emperor.
But a vast majority was frightened of having to go to war. My opinion, of course.
Young Japanese boys were drafted from farms and fishing villages – just like we did here in the US of A during that time. Boys from Parsons, Kansas or from a sea coast shrimping town in Louisiana.
And they all had moms.
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Like all Americans of my age, we were taught that the Japanese soldiers of WWII were fanatics. That they all were hell-bent to charge into a hail of Allied machine gun fire. To willingly die.
We were also taught that when a US Marine charged well entrenched Japanese soldiers with a satchel charge, he was a hero. Not a fanatic. He was John Wayne or Kirk Douglas. Was Esprit de Corps driving the young Marine to offer his life to save his buddies?
There is no intent to question our American values of valor or honor. Just a quandary.
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My Hiroshima cousin Masako mentioned in Hawai’i having seen a photo of Uncle Suetaro and Grandmother. It was taken the day before Uncle shipped out for war (1944). Masako said Grandmother – having suffered a stroke the day before – was propped up by “shiki-futon”, or Japanese bedding for the picture. She felt strongly it was the last picture taken of Uncle Suetaro but doesn’t know what happened to it.
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A few weeks ago, my California cousin Janice came across a number of old photos; she had forgotten about them. She said there were some family photos from Hiroshima. Her father – Uncle Suetaro’s and my Dad’s oldest brother – had apparently been able to hold on to them through the decades.
I asked Janice if there were any photos of my Dad’s two youngest siblings, Suetaro and Mieko, or of Michie (Masako’s mother). Janice then described a picture of Uncle Suetaro in a uniform and Grandmother (seen at the beginning of this story).
I was stunned. Topo Giggio meets Godzilla. It was the photo Masako vividly recalled seeing decades ago.
Is there an air of fearfulness…of fright? You can decide. But as we were led to believe, all Japanese soldiers were fanatics…yes?
Masako and Spam Musubi 