Roots And Branches: The spirits of Willow Flat

I have lived through historical and personal cycles like this before and it is not my nature to hibernate through the cold of winter or turn away from adversity. There are times when “my get up and go got up and went,” as my dad used to say. But there was also the old familiar phrase, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going,” that rings in my ears and helps me come out on the other side, full of “spit and vinegar” and ready to battle the injustices of the world.

‘ … across our nation I see a sea of shining faces, voices raised courteously, but emphatically against the bullies, the hatemongers and those who perpetuate injustice.’

The physical and emotional loss of our brother Tom Yasui and sister Joan Yasui Emerson has been difficult for us all. They suffered prolonged illnesses that were painful for all to watch, yet they handled it a manner that brought comfort to others. I see that commitment in so many faces, hearts and hands in our community, across this state and nation. We are blessed to have so many people walking that same walk, our young students, teachers, faith leaders, farm workers, care takers and healers. It lifts your spirits to see their commitment to others.

Joan spent her life following in the footsteps of her uncle Minoru Yasui, fighting injustice, serving the poor and vulnerable, raising money for many worthy causes. She had the gentle nature of a Quaker in many circumstances, but the fire of a dragon if she believed someone was being bullied, disparaged or exploited. She was not hesitant in aiming that fire in the direction of an offender to spare another from pain or suffering. She spent the first part of her life in the Berkeley area serving the homeless, the aging, and disenfranchised. When she “retired” to Hood River, she steadfastly worked to make the lives of the most vulnerable more comfortable.

For years, she traveled to Dignity Village in Portland, a plethora of food and supplies filling the car, plying the twisted paths with her wares. She greeted all with a warm smile and a kind word, attributing the same level of respect to a mentally ill homeless man that she would towards the esteemed Dalai Lama. She treasured the friendships she built with Native Americans living in the Columbia River Gorge, continuing the long tradition passed from her grandfather Masuo to her father Ray over the previous 80 years. She walked comfortably in two disparate worlds, those frequented by the rich and famous, and those living on the opposite side of the tracks.

Although a nature lover, Joan was not a natural farmer as was her father and brothers Tom and Flip. Tom was less comfortable in the proximity of the rich and powerful, especially if straight jacketed into a suit and tie. He was willing to sacrifice his work shirt and pants for formal attire if he could help others by doing so. Although he served on multiple boards at the local and state level, he was far more at home visiting fellow farmers at the spray shed, sharing conversation and trading books at the Odell barber shop or sitting in front of a poker machine at 1301.

Tom collected friends wherever he went, at a restaurant, gas station, on a tractor or airplane. He was sincerely friendly, compassionate and helpful towards anyone he encountered. He made you feel that you were his best friend, exemplifying the abbreviation BFF (best friends forever) tossed about irreverently by millenniums. Friendship was meant to be nurtured, according to Tom, like others cherished a good glass of wine or a Cuban cigar. Although a cardholding sansei, Tom was not a member of the cell phone generation and was just beginning to understand the flip phone when he passed away last December. The best conversations Tom had each and every day were those that were conducted face to face.

Our family and community lost another soul cast in the same mold as Tom. On Thanksgiving evening, Sumio “Soup” Fukui passed away at the venerable age of 90 years. Much like Tom, he was a kind, unassuming man, who cared little for many of life’s glitzy trappings, but valued friendship and loyalty above all else. Tom and Soup were givers, of themselves, their time and their support. They enjoyed a great table spread with delicious Japanese food, good conversation and a good laugh on themselves or with others. They spent their lives working in the orchard, playing as a child among the shady rows of fruit trees, exploring the nearby forests and streams. They came to farming through their fathers and worked the land in a manner that was respectful of the earth and the treasures it bestowed. They were loved by all.

In 1942, the Fukui and Yasui families, along with hundreds of others of Japanese ancestry, were forced to leave their Hood River homes and imprisoned first at Pinedale and then Tulelake, Calif. They were part of over 100,000 west coast Japanese incarcerated by our government during World War II. This very month, there is talk by our political leaders, 75 years later, of this illegal action setting precedence for similar actions to be taken against Muslims. This on the heels of the Presidential Medal of Freedom award given to Minoru Yasui posthumously for his fight against this very injustice. We cannot let history repeat this injustice.

Tom’s sister Joan was the first child born at the Tulelake internment camp, a desolate place in the high desert of northern California where the wind blew the dust incessantly through sweltering summer days and frigid winter nights. There are tiny brownie camera snapshots of Joan lying on a table, tar shack door opened just a crack to cast a beam of sunlight on her face, photos that were contraband in the early days. The Fukui family was captured in the same stamp sized photo in front of the shacks of Heart Mountain, yet another prison camp to which they were transferred. Their smiling faces bely the story of a family whose life was irrevocably disrupted, yet the perseverance of their nature in making the best of a deplorable situation. Tom began his life in Ontario, Ore., where his mom and dad were released to work in the sugar beet fields to support the war effort.

Both families returned to their farms in their beloved Hood River valley, the Fukuis to Dee and Yasuis to Willow Flat. Both suffered loss, but poignantly expressed that the deepest pain experienced came from the loss of the trust and friendship of their friends and neighbors when they returned from internment camps. They dedicated the rest of their lives working to rebuild that trust and those relationships.

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Tom, Joan and Soup were great ambassadors, serving others and making friendships where ever they went. As I look above the pall of hatred and intolerance that has risen in our community and across our nation, I see a sea of shining faces, voices raised courteously, but emphatically against the bullies, the hatemongers and those who perpetuate injustice. My heart swells. There is reason to celebrate this season and for seasons to come when you hear the voices of our faith leaders, tribal elders, students, healers, and all the compassionate people who are building bridges of friendship rather than walls of imprisonment.