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JONATHAN FERRINI - SHORT- STORIES

11/19/2020

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Jonathan Ferrini is a San Diego published author who received his MFA in motion picture and television production from UCLA.

Tea with Old Friends ​

It was a weekly treat for me to attend an elegant, afternoon, “High Tea” at the beautiful “Mark  Hopkins Hotel” after church services across the street. The “Mark” held a commanding view of  San Francisco from its location atop Nob Hill, and provided a beautiful view of the iconic bridge,  bay, and city below. 
I was always welcomed by my waiter, Franco, a fifty year employee, who reserved my favorite, long, green, supple, silk covered, chaste lounge, which included two long arms, and a matching  foot rest. With charm and grace, Franco would gently roll up a brass serving table with a glass top, displaying my assortment of English teas, finger sandwiches, and exquisite pastries. Franco  always included a glass of sherry which often times induced an afternoon nap, and dreams of our  exotic travels as a family. 
Across from my chaste lounge, was its “sister”; a beautiful, vintage, velvet, bright red sofa with  gold leaf accents. It looked as if it previously held a prominent place within the palace of Czar  Alexander. The red sofa was so elegant, it appeared to be a museum piece, and only on  occasion, would people sit upon it with reverence. Both furniture pieces were handcrafted at least  one hundred years earlier. I always admired people with an appreciation for fine furniture who  would photograph, and admire the beautiful red sofa. 
We were situated in a quiet corner of the magnificent hotel lounge where I could sit alone with  my memories, nap, or watch the hotel guests come and go. My heart was always warmed by  watching a young mother introduce her daughter to High Tea, reminding me of my precious  moments with my daughter, now grown with a lovely daughter of her own, attending Stanford. 
Franco wore his spotless, white waiter’s jacket, white shirt, black bow tie, pressed black trousers,  and shoes shining like mirrors. Franco put two children through college working at “The Mark”,  and was the last of a dying breed of professional waiters. He felt like family and treated me like  royalty, greeting me as “Madame”, and always nearby at my beckon call. He remembered the  many private dinners my husband and I shared, our anniversary celebrations, birthdays, and  lavish New Year’s parties we hosted. He was careful to remind me of these precious memories  because it always brought me tears of joy, albeit, bittersweet, now that I’m elderly and alone.

The chaste lounge and I became friends because I believed it had a soul. Its arm rests were like  the embracing arms of a loved one, comforting me as I reflected upon my long life; a depression  era teenager, soldier’s wife, mother to a beautiful grown daughter with an equally beautiful  granddaughter, and a handsome son killed in Vietnam, whose untimely ,and unnecessary death, left an open “wound” within my heart. We had a comfortable life in San Francisco, and managed  quite a bit of international travel as my husband was transferred around the world in the course  of his business. We fell in love with San Francisco and decided to make it our home when we  retired. 
I often fell into a deep sleep within my chaste lounge, and awoke to find a blanket carefully  placed over me by Franco, and a plush pillow beneath my head. I had a dream that my departed  husband was calling for me from the opposite side of our home, as was his custom. I hadn’t  dreamed of my husband for decades, and surmised, I was being called to “join” him shortly. I  welcomed the day when we might be reunited in the afterlife. I missed him, dearly. 
I was ninety years old and watched my friends die over the years. Except for church, periodic  visits from my daughter and granddaughter, I lived a reclusive life, but was content. 
I returned one Sunday afternoon for High Tea to find the entire hotel lounge had been  remodeled. I walked about, hurriedly looking for my chaste lounge and it’s “sister”, the red sofa.  I believed that I might have entered the wrong hotel until I was met by Franco. 
“Franco, what happened to the lounge? Where are my chaste lounge and the red sofa?” 
“The hotel management remodeled the lounge last week to attract younger guests. I miss the old  décor, as well, Madame.” 
“Where did the chaste lounge and red sofa go? Perhaps, they’re in storage? I would like to  purchase both immediately!” 
“The work was completed during the overnight hours so as to minimize our guest’s inconvenience, but I will inquire on your behalf, Madame.” 
The General Manager, a young Swiss hotelier, soon thereafter, approached me, apologizing, 
“I’m sorry Madame but the previous furnishings were taken away by a moving company to an  undisclosed location at the behest of our interior designers who don’t have any further  information on their whereabouts.”

The General Manager and Franco knew I was heartbroken by the loss of my favorite chaste  lounge and its “sister” sofa. They provided me with a beautiful Queen Anne chair adjacent to the  fireplace, and graciously provided my “High Tea” at no charge.  
I considered my favorite furniture as friends, and was thankful for the privilege of knowing  them. I prayed both the chaste lounge and red sofa met a beautiful fate, perhaps displayed with  honor in a vintage furniture shop, soon to be purchased, hopefully together, and appreciated by  new owners for decades to come? If I knew which store, I’d immediately purchase them both  and move them into my Pacific Heights home. 
At ninety, I had grown accustomed to losing friends and loved ones, but the loss of two  inanimate, beautiful, vintage, furniture pieces, providing only comfort, never the pain and sorrow  humans mete out, devastated me. I dreaded the thought they may be sitting in a landfill, slowly  decaying, like an elderly woman. I prayed they did in fact, have souls, and would fondly  remember the many guests they comforted, including me.

​

Rideshare 
​

It was a hot summer, and I was “sweating” my physics final exam. I was required to take physics for a  second time during summer school after failing the course during the Spring Quarter of my sophomore year in college. I was also “sweating” the grueling, twelve hour days, I was working as a rideshare driver.  
My family lived in a large, luxurious home, in an affluent part of town. My parents were both successful  professionals. Although I wanted to become a software engineer and design new App’s, I spent most of  my time playing video games, drinking with my friends, and slacking. I attended a rigorous STEM university, and the students were very competitive. The coursework was tough and required intense  study. Nobody reached out to one another to share notes, or help explain difficult subject matter. Our  access to the professors was limited, and we waited in line to approach overworked graduate students, serving as teaching assistants, who had limited time, and patience for our questions. 
Distraught because I flunked physics and wasn’t devoting the necessary time to my studies, my parents  meted out “tough love” to me; they kicked me out of the house for the summer with no money, and  told me “to make it on my own.” They explained the experience would be “good for me” and motivate  me to take my “studies seriously.” 
I found a friends couch to sleep on for the summer. I needed spending money, fast, and signed up for a  ride share job using my hybrid car which was ideal because it had great gas mileage. Being a ride share  driver had its advantages because I could “cash out” my earnings daily which were immediately  deposited into my checking account without tax withholding. I drove twelve hour days, earning about  $200, less gas money. After twelve hours of driving in heavy traffic, I returned home, hungry and  exhausted. After a few hours of physics study, I’d fall asleep after eating a frozen dinner. 
The job took me all over town, and into neighborhoods, I didn’t know; mostly lower income. I’d often  race through these “bad” neighborhoods, running red lights, to avoid potential car jackers, and fearful of the menacing appearing homeless who roamed the neighborhoods. It was tiring work but I met  interesting people, beautiful girls, and felt a satisfaction from a hard day’s work. 
My rideshare App alerted me to a pick up at a downtown, budget motel, which always resulted in a  scary ride. The passengers were usually frantic after being evicted, intoxicated, or mentally ill. I accepted  the rides because I needed the money, and, all rides have the potential of becoming long and lucrative.

​I arrived at the motel where an elderly, grey haired, Black man, was tending to an elderly, frail, silver  haired, Caucasian woman in a wheel chair. As I approached, he was eager to see me, waived, and  approached the vehicle. He told me they were only going a “few blocks”, and apologized for the “short  ride.” It was a hot day, and I gave them my last bottle of water because they were perspiring, and I  feared they were suffering from heat stroke. They were thirsty and grateful for the water. I noticed the  elderly woman’s hands were grotesquely twisted, and she had difficulty holding the water bottle with  both hands. The Black man gently held the bottle to her mouth, allowing her to sip the water. 
I opened up the trunk. The man carefully lifted the elderly woman from the wheel chair, and buckled her  into the rear seat with tenderness and care, suggesting a relationship similar to a mother and son. He  folded the wheel chair and placed it within my trunk. This man was large and imposing but exhibited  chivalry, kindness, and love for the crippled old woman. 
He thanked me for “picking him up” which suggested he may have been the victim of rideshare  discrimination by frightened or insensitive drivers. He remarked, 
“I’m sweating worse than an Arkansas mule.” 
I had never heard that expression before, asking, “Where did that saying come from?” “My pop was a sharecropper in Mississippi and used it and other sayings often.” 
He was perspiring and distraught about his cell phone battery dying. I plugged his cell phone into my  recharger cord, cranked up the air conditioning which calmed him down, and he thanked me. We  immediately liked each other. 
He introduced himself as “Rollo”, short for “Rollin’ On”. He described himself as a “rolling stone”, never  spending too much time in one place. He introduced the old woman as “Beatrice”. I introduced myself  as Zack. 
Rollo was an imposing figure but a “gentle giant”. He was about 6’2”, 220#, and his body looked beaten  down from a long life of grueling work. His face also showed the many years of a difficult life. He was  maybe seventy. The elderly woman looked to be pushing eighty. 
“What’s your story, Rollo?” 
“I grew up in rural Mississippi and I was a troublemaker raised by a single mom. We got by on food  stamps and a vegetable garden. Despite our frugalness, the food stamps would run out by the third  week of the month. Mama was a great cook and could make a nutritious meal from very little foodstuffs. After the food stamps for the month ran out, I wanted to surprise her with a good cut of  meat. I got caught stealing a chuck steak from the market, and the judge gave me a choice of spending a  year in county jail or joining the Army. I chose the Army which provided me discipline, a work ethic, self 
respect, and “straightened” me out. I was happy to send most of my Army pay home to mama. I did one  tour in Vietnam and was honorably discharged in 1972. I was spat on when arriving home at the airport  up north by war protestors, and caught the first bus home, back to my poverty stricken town in  Mississippi. Life was slow, no work, so I took to the bottle, and fell in with the wrong crowd. Mama was  having difficulty walking and complaining of numbness in her feet. White doctors wouldn’t treat Black  folk so I took mama to the only Black doctor in town. He diagnosed mama with Type 2 diabetes. He  couldn’t treat her and urged me to take her for treatment to the nearest town with a university medical  school hospital. Despite her Medicare benefits, the treatment was too costly for mama to pay. I took to  stealing to pay mama’s medical bills. I stole anything I could pawn or fence for immediate cash. When  she asked me where the money was coming from, I said I was sharecropping by day, and working as a  night watchman.  
“I was eventually arrested, convicted, and I spent two years on a chain gang. Mama’s condition  continued to worsen while I was on the chain gang but she managed to survive until I was released. 
“After serving my sentence, and with the help of a veteran’s organization, I found work as a truck driver  trainee, offering full training; decent pay which enabled me to pay all of mama’s bills, and the job had  good benefits, including medical insurance for mama. I moved to Phoenix where the trucking company  was headquartered. Man, I loved driving. I drove the entire country and Canada, digging the freedom,  and independence of working for myself. North America is one of the most beautiful places on earth,  Zack. I’d call mama every week from a different state or province, and mail her a souvenir. She was  proud of me which gave me the self respect I sorely needed. Over the years, I developed lower back pain  from hours of driving, and was prescribed opiate based medicines which hooked me. I drank booze along with the opiates. The booze and opiates created a wonderful high and removed the back pain but I became addicted. 
“When I returned the rig to Phoenix after a thirty day run, I failed my drug test, got fired on the spot,  lost my commercial driving license, and ended up on the streets as a homeless man in hot as hell  Phoenix. I survived on unemployment benefits for six months, and then turned to welfare. I took on odd  jobs, when and if I could find them. I didn’t have the heart to tell mama I was fired, and was too  ashamed to call mama or return home to Mississippi. I became a drug addict. Within a year, the trucking  company forwarded me a faded, official letter from the Mississippi Coroner’s office informing me that  mama died ,and was cremated because no next of kin could be located. I suffered, Zack. The guilt of  abandoning mama was so intense; it could only be quelled with heroin, booze, and meth.” 
Beatrice couldn’t talk, except to mumble. Rollo reached over to wipe the spittle dripping from the side  of her mouth. She was petit, and held tightly on to the arms of her car seat as if she was holding on to  life. Rollo explained, 
“Beatrice was evicted from a hospice where she was expected to die from liver cancer. Her Social  Security disability benefits weren’t enough to cover the expenses even in a poor quality hospice.  Beatrice has no family. She is going to die on the streets, alone, without me. Until her time comes, I’m  determined to make her life as comfortable as I can. We’re like family, Zack.” 
“Where did Beatrice come from?” 
“I met her at the Salvation Army, sitting alone in the corner of the cafeteria, having difficulty feeding  herself with her shaking, twisted hands. I sat next to her and fed her. We’ve been together ever since.” 
“How did she end up at the Salvation Army, Rollo?” 
“Back in the eighties, politicians closed all the mental institutions and released helpless psychiatric  patients, who had spent their entire lives under the care and supervision of mental health professionals,  into the streets. Beatrice had been placed in a mental hospital for developmentally disabled children as  a baby. She never learned to speak nor walk, but could hear, and understand most of what was said. She  has Cerebral palsy which crippled her hands. She never knew life outside of the state hospital. When  they closed the hospital, she met briefly with an overworked social worker who couldn’t understand  her, handing her a list of privately owned, overcrowded, board and care facilities, and a pharmacy where  she could get her medications filled. It was like casting a newborn to the wolves. Most of her life has  included short term stays in emergency rooms, prison cells, or sleeping on the sidewalk. 
“I’ve never let go of the guilt associated with not being by mama’s side when she died. Beatrice reminded me of my mother. I was drawn to looking after her because it dampened the guilt raging  within me. You like this ride share driving gig, Zack?” 
“No, I hate it.” 
“Why the hell do it then?” 
“Because my parents kicked me out of the house for the summer for failing physics and I need money.” “They kicked you out of the house for flunking a course?” 
“You have to understand, my parents are over achievers. Dad’s a neurologist and a clinical professor of  neurology at the medical school, and mom’s manages a Wall Street investment fund. They think by  kicking me out of the house, and forcing me to “make it on my own for the summer”, they’d “toughen  me up”, and I’d take my college coursework more seriously.” 
“Well son, I can tell you stories about tough love.”  
Rollo pulled his shirt up over his head revealing scars on his back.
“The scars on my back are from whippings my drunken father gave me trying to straighten me out. I  begged mama not to intervene because he would turn the whip on her. He eventually split, leaving me  and mom to fend for ourselves, never returning. “I’ll take “tough love”, rather than no love, anytime,  son. Your parents are showing’ you how hard life can be. Me and Beatrice are perfect examples. It was  fate that led you to pick us up. Maybe we’ll teach you about life?” 
Beatrice tapped Rollo on the shoulder with her disfigured hand as if in agreement. 
“I don’t even know what physics looks like, but I flunked life, Zack. I wish I could get those years back  because I’d accept all the “tough love” my parents could give me, if it would provide me with a future  like the one you’ll enjoy. You just treat this summer job as a brief stay in hell, drive the long hours, and  remember the faces of the many homeless you’ll see. Take each day at a time, put one foot in front of  the other, and hope for the best. If the wisdom you learn passes through one ear and out the other, or  remains embedded in your memory, is up to you. When you go back to school, attack your subjects like  your life depends upon your passing each course. Any time you find yourself backsliding, remember me  and Beatrice. We won’t forget you.” 
I drove them a few blocks to skid row where he asked me to drop them. Rollo unloaded the wheel chair  from the trunk, and carefully helped Beatrice into the chair. I felt guilty leaving them on a busy, hot  street corner, amidst despair. Rollo thanked me for the ride, shook my hand, offering me the following  advice, “Zack, you make your own luck in life. You have all the tools necessary for success. Don’t  squander them. Seize every opportunity. Failure is your friend because it will eventually lead you to  success. Nothing can stop you, brother.” 
Beatrice nodded her head in agreement. She pointed to a faded, green, plastic, shamrock amulet, attached to a tattered string around her neck she must have worn for decades. Beatrice motioned Rollo  to remove it from her neck and give it to me. The shamrock had the date of her birth inscribed upon it  and must have been a present from jubilant new parents to their baby girl. The faded green paint, and  lack of a chain, was like a metaphor for parents who gave up when they discovered their new born was  disabled for life. I pondered the pain or relief they must have felt leaving their baby at a state hospital,  never to see her again. 
I was saddened watching Rollo carefully wheel Beatrice down the sidewalk to a rescue mission. I hung  the faded shamrock from my rear view mirror as a reminder of my new friends. 
As the remaining weeks of summer grinded along, I treated my rideshare job like a sociology class. I  purposely sought out rides in the downtrodden parts of town, and was pleased to pick up riders who I  would have previously shunned for their appearance, mental condition, or economic standing. I was 
eager to learn who they were, what they thought, and how they came to be? I always learned  something new about life and humanity from these sages of the streets.  
It wasn’t until I began receiving voice mail and text messages from my parents demanding to meet with  them and “discuss the lessons I learned from my summer job” that I realized the summer had ended,  and the fall term was soon to commence. I dreaded the specter of having to explain to my parents “what I had learned” from my summer of driving. They wouldn’t understand, and it wouldn’t be what  they wanted to hear. 
I was the first student to complete the physics final, racing through it as if it was an elementary school  math test. I received an “A”. 
The summer of rideshare driving changed me. I didn’t want to return to the comfort of my home and  plush bedroom, full of distractions, and light years from the reality of the streets I witnessed. I was  independent now. I sought out minimalist accommodations within walking distance to campus hoping it  would keep me grounded in reality, and permit me to focus on my studies. I was fortunate to find a  small apartment above a liquor store a few blocks from campus. The proprietor was the owner of the  liquor store, giving me a bargain rent because I was a “responsible college student”, and would watch  over the liquor store during closing hours. Although the apartment was a single room, dingy flat, with an old refrigerator, Murphy bed, and small stove, it was mine. I was beholden to nobody’s rules but my  own.  
I made contact with my parents by text message, with a lyric from a tune from my playlist. I chose Bob  Dylan’s album, “Highway 61 Revisited”, hoping the lyrics would convey to them what I had learned over  my summer of “tough love”, 

                                        
                           “When ya ain't got nothin', you got nothin' to lose” 

​At night, I lay in the Murphy bed, and thought of Rollo and Beatrice, alone in the world, roaming from  soup kitchen to homeless shelters. Rollo and Beatrice profoundly changed my life from that of a slacker  to a motivated student because I saw the pain or affluence life can mete out.  
When the college term began, I attacked my studies with a new resolve. I couldn’t relate to my former  classmates. I was a changed person. I fondly recalled the loving assistance Rollo extended to Beatrice  and, whenever I encountered a student struggling with the coursework, I volunteered to help them. 
I approached the university and volunteered to become a tutor in those courses I now was mastering. My  offer was gladly accepted by the university, and, as students began attending my tutoring sessions,  additional gifted students volunteered as tutors. I’m happy to say, I changed the reputation of my  college major from a competitive, “lone wolf” major, to a collegial, “help thy neighbor” major. My 
efforts were not lost on the Dean of Students who promised to write me a letter of recommendation  upon my graduation, and encouraged me to attend graduate school at our university. 
My father and mother were very proud of my academic success. My father invited me to the Faculty  Club to show off his over achieving son. After lunch, we headed back to his laboratory where some  medical students were dissecting, and studying the central nervous system of a cadaver. To my dismay,  it was Beatrice lying on the stainless steel autopsy table. The autopsy technician approached saying,  “She was brought into the ER yesterday by a large Black man. She was diagnosed as having terminal liver  failure. She died in the ER. The man wasn’t a relative but produced a legal document showing he was  conservator for the woman, and he produced a notarized Last Will and Testament, including a  “Statement of Donation” of the woman’s body to our medical school.” 
A medical student spoke up while dissecting Beatrice, “We lucked out with this cadaver because it gives  us the opportunity to study her liver disease, palsy, and developmental disability. We might find a link!” I was tempted to reply, “Her name is Beatrice and treat her with dignity!”  
I approached the autopsy table and stroked Beatrice’s fine silver hair. She was a small, frail woman, and  terribly thin from years of starvation. I stared at her mouth closely, and could make out a glimmer of a  smile. I was surprised to find that both of her hands were free from the contortions of cerebral palsy.  Her fingers were straight, long, thin, elegant, and resembled those of a pianist. I asked the autopsy tech, 
“I’ve seen this homeless woman around town and know that her hands were severely contorted by  cerebral palsy. Why are they straight?” 
My father overheard my question and answered, “I’ve seen this before, Zack. For some misfortunate  people, the gift of life carries with it a price in the form of unfair burdens they must carry throughout  their lives. For this woman, it was cerebral palsy of her hands and developmental disabilities. Over the  course of my career, I’ve seen death provide a “repayment” of sorts for their burdens, and for this poor  woman, it was the reward of beautiful hands.” 
I suspected Beatrice was happy to leave this world, and I’m certain she was delighted to donate her  body for the furtherance of medical science. I excused myself, entered the men’s room, closed the stall  door, and wept. I was happy Beatrice found peace and beautiful hands in death, but wondered about  Rollo’s fate, recalling the lyrics to the Dylan song, 

“How does it feel? 
How does it feel? 
To be on your own 
With no direction home 
A complete unknown 
Like a rolling stone?”

​
I knew he missed Beatrice and his mama. I also know he would take delight to see the gift of beautiful  hands death provided Beatrice. I washed and dried my face while looking in the mirror, and recited  Rollo’s advice, “I’ll take “tough love”, rather than no love, anytime.”

​

​Our Arborist

Mr. Mori awoke to a beautiful sunny morning and stared out the window of his hospice into a small, well-maintained garden with bright flowers, a California pepper tree providing shade, and a gathering place for happy, singing birds. A familiar appearing bluebird landed on the window sill, and stared into his eyes. At that moment, Mr. Mori knew it was time “to let go”. He removed the morphine catheter from his arm, and carefully taped it back so as not to alert the nursing staff that he removed it. He waived to the bluebird as it flew away, and, was his morning ritual, remembered his beloved wife and daughter, holding their framed photos to his heart. Mr. Mori was 93 years old, and his heart was failing which he believed was “broken” by the loss of his wife and daughter many decades before.
As a teenager, he remembered staring through a chain link fence out into the barren desert with only the backdrop of Mt. Whitney and the Sequoia National park in the distance. Mr. Mori imagined the tall, majestic trees of Sequoia, and remembered the tall trees he climbed as a child. He didn’t care for the barren desert. His home was the Manzanar internment camp for Japanese Americans constructed during the hysteria of World War II. His memories were interrupted by a kind nurse announcing,
“Mr. Mori, you have a visitor!”
I entered Mr. Mori’s room. It was small but pleasant, with only a hospital bed, bathroom, and a night stand upon which I saw black and white, faded, framed photographs of his parents, former wife, and deceased daughter.  I approached his bed slowly, and whispered, “Mr. Mori, I’m Gabe Stein, the grandson of Abe Stein. I’ve come to say hello. My grandfather admired you and considered you a friend. He passed recently, and asked me before he died, to visit you, and tell you “goodbye.” I placed a bottle of Saki on the table beside his photographs.
“I’m hard of hearing. Please, come closer, Gabe.”
“I’m the grandson of Abe Stein who was the principal of the school who hired you to cut down a tree, and you were his neighbor and gardener for many years.”
“Abe was a very good man and my friend. What type of work do you do, Gabe?”
“I’m a surgeon, Mr. Mori.”


“Ah, you’re a tree surgeon like me?”
“No, Mr. Mori, I repair hearts.”
“Abe and your family must be very proud of you, Gabe.”

What was supposed to be a brief goodbye to an old friend of my grandfather became a lesson in life. Mr. Mori pushed the button raising the bed so as to speak to me, and became alert, as if he had found a new spark of energy as he began to tell his life story to me.
“I’m approaching my 94th birthday and bedridden in this care facility until I die. I think mostly about the past. How is our old neighborhood?” 
 I was saddened to report, “The old neighborhood was replaced my new homes and a shopping center.”
“Nothing remains the same, Gabe. I don’t have any family or friends left, just memories. Each memory dies eventually. When you become old like me, you’ll understand.”
 Mr. Mori was my grandparent’s friend, neighbor, and gardener. During WWII, my grandparents were both educators within the LA school district, choosing to teach primary and secondary school within the impoverished neighborhoods of LA. My grandparents were progressives, idolized FDR, and were early supporters of the civil rights movement. When the Japanese were interned between 1943 and 1945, my grandparents removed the photograph of FDR hanging on the wall in the dining room. They told me to choose a profession which would enable me to “give something back” to society and “help people”.
 My grandparents were able to afford a simple, but comfortable home, in the “Boyle Heights” neighborhood of LA. It was a bustling, well maintained community, consisting largely of Jews, along with Japanese Americans, and Mexican Americans. They all lived in harmony. There were kosher butcher shops, Japanese florists, Chinese laundries, and Mexican grocers. My grandparent’s combined income permitted them the luxury of hiring a gardener, and, they were fortunate to hire their neighbor, Mr. Mori, who was an expert gardener, and arborist. They’d watch Mr. Mori meticulously trim the trees, mow the lawn, and rake up the clippings as if he was tending to sacred temple grounds. The Mori family had a work ethic. Mrs. Mori took in laundry and ran a small, day care center providing mind provoking games, breakfast, lunch, and a late afternoon snack for the children of all races. Mr. Mori was their only child.
 “I was a tall, lanky kid with glasses, and not much of an athlete, Gabe. I was the pride and joy of my parents. They were always kind and gentle towards me, never placing expectations upon me other than “to do my best” and to be a “good man”. My parents made certain I was always properly dressed for school, wearing sweater vests, pressed trousers, and shoes shined like mirrors. My favorite subject was literature and I enjoyed the poems of Walt Whitman, imagining the beautiful scenery Whitman described. I joined the high school jazz band and took up the tenor sax. We played gigs throughout the neighborhood.  I developed a crush on a beautiful Japanese girl named Akiko who played the flute in the jazz band. We exchanged admiring glances during band practice, and I was privileged to walk her home from school each day. I was working up the nerve to ask her to the Prom just before we were sent to Manzanar. I never saw Akiko again after leaving for Manzanar. After school, I delivered groceries, prescriptions, flowers, and the morning newspaper with the help of my father. We’d fold the newspapers at the crack of dawn, load them onto the truck, and deliver them on our designated route. We’d be back in time for dad to drop me at school, and pick up his gardening crew.”

My grandparents also had a work ethic. My grandfather rose through the ranks of the school system while earning both a Master’s degree and Doctorate in Education at night school. He became Principal of our neighborhood elementary school. He was now “Dr. Abraham Stein”, but insisted folks refer to him as either “Abe” or “Doc”. My mother chose to continue her career in the classroom teaching mathematics. Mr. Mori was a considerate man, always mindful of leaving Passover, Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah, or Chanukah cards at our doorstep. My grandparents had the good fortune of his company, including his wife and son, at a Shabbat dinner. Mr. Mori was very interested in our Jewish traditions, and my grandparents were equally interested in his Japanese heritage.
“Tell me more about your life, Mr. Mori.”
“World War II changed everything. It was 1942, and posters began to proliferate throughout Boyle Heights ordering all Japanese to report to a designated point where we would be placed on busses and transported 219 miles from Los Angeles to the desert of Inyo County where Camp Manzanar was located. Each member of the family was permitted to carry only one box of personal possessions which were rudely loaded onto an army truck for delivery to Manzanar. We boarded a bus and began our journey. My mother discretely cried, and my father, although stoic, shed a tear or two. Your grandparents promised to look after our home during our absence. The Japanese businesses built over decades throughout the neighborhood were shuttered.”
“My grandparents remembered the wonderful party you gave the neighbors before leaving for Manzanar, Mr. Mori. It was the first time they ate sushi. They told me they admired your family’s strength in the face of tragedy. I suspect it brought back vivid memories of the Jews plight in World War II Germany.”
“We revered our friends and neighbors and it was our way of thanking them for their friendship, and possibly, a final opportunity to say goodbye, Gabe.”
“What do you remember of your parents, Mr. Mori?” 
“My parents were pioneers, coming to America penniless. They never mentioned any relatives here or in Japan. They were proud Americans, and never failed to fly the American flag on the Fourth, Memorial Day, or Veteran’s Day.  My earliest memories were of my father’s gardening and tree trimming business. My father owned an immaculate, light blue Ford pickup truck. His tools were neatly arranged, and his route would take him into the best neighborhoods of Los Angeles. I’d accompany my father on Saturday’s and school vacations. I marveled at the tall trees, and I would climb them until my father ordered me down fearing I might fall. On those rare occasions we took a family trip, it was to the mountains to admire the trees, and enjoy a picnic lunch beneath them.
My father took pride in his work. His talent for the intricate pruning of trees, named “Niwaki”, involved keeping the tree in harmony with its surroundings. “Niwaki” practitioners received inspiration from mountains, waterfalls and rivers. They combined different techniques of trimming, clipping and pruning. The idea was to revere the “essence” of the tree because it was a living entity, no different than a human being. My father would never remove the stump after cutting down a tree because he likened it to “ripping out the heart” of a living being. He chose to leave behind a stump which he trimmed into a chair for those to enjoy. He declined jobs when the owners demanded the removal of the stump which required loud, violent, grinding machinery reminding him of murder.” 
The Japanese at Manzanar formed a close knit community and thrived despite our circumstances. Education of the children was of paramount importance, and classes were formed to keep up with the school work we were missing. Clubs ranging from pottery, painting, and most importantly, civics lessons were very popular. The Japanese were determined to prove their patriotism. Our parents told us the US was a “good country”, and life would return to “normal” shortly. By the time Manzanar closed in 1945, and the Japanese returned to their homes to begin their lives over again, many young Japanese men enlisted in the military as a show of patriotism. I enlisted in the Air Force because I always marveled at the blue sky and clouds I admired from the treetops as a child. I was stationed in Tokyo. I became enamored with Japanese culture and eager to learn the language.”  
The air force discovered my horticultural background, and assigned me to gardening duties around the base which caught the eye of the Commanding General who was an amateur “Bonsai” tree collector. He promoted me to Staff Sergeant and chief of grounds maintenance, overseeing a crew of 50. He gave me the added responsibility of maintaining his Bonsai trees and his personal garden.  My crew was handpicked from Japanese civilians because no airmen wanted to work for a “Jap”. I learned to become an arborist through correspondence courses.”
I was also responsible for clearing trees for new airfields and buildings. It pained me to cut down healthy trees. I was proficient in determining the age of the fallen trees from the rings around the stump. The older the tree, the more rings, and more saddening it was to cut it down. I likened it to murder, and on many occasions, pleaded with the General, who, sympathized with me as a fellow lover of trees and gardens, but always succumbed to the “best interests of the Air Force”. It was an easy and safe gig which brought me home evenings to a raucous barracks void of intellectual stimulation, filled with cigarette smoke, card games, and inappropriate talk amongst the airmen of their female Japanese “conquests.”
I filled my evenings with a second job supplementing my air force pay with a job teaching English to Tokyo residents, and I was fortunate to meet a beautiful, Japanese woman, who I courted. She was beautiful, humble, intelligent, and we shared an interest in each other’s language and culture. Her family perished during the bombing at Hiroshima, and she was all alone. Her name was “Sakura”. She was training to be a nurse when the atom bomb fell.”
We married, and, within a year, Sakura gave birth to a beautiful daughter, we named, “Ichika”, meaning “One Thousand Flowers.”  My wife and daughter were inseparable, and I relished their beautiful, boundless love for each other. Sakura delighted in teaching Ichika the language and customs of both her native Japan and the United States. It was our plan to return to the United States where I would attend 
college on the GI Bill. My parents had secured for us a lovely guest home on the same block as our family home where my mother would provide day care for Ichika, while Sakura and I were at school and work. We looked forward to a new life in America. Sakura never mentioned it, but I knew she was eager to leave behind the pain and suffering she endured during the war.”
During a July 4th celebration at the air base, Ichika held cotton candy in one hand and a balloon on a string in her other hand. As the air force band struck up “God Bless America”, Ichika was startled, accidently let go of the balloon which floated across the flight path of an approaching plane. She broke loose from her mother’s grip to chase the balloon, and ran into the raging propeller of the passing plane. She was killed in a grotesque fashion. I ran to Sakura as she frantically picked up the remaining pieces of Ichika’s body, whaling, and covered in blood. Airman rushed to restrain us covered with our daughter’s blood. It was a sight that myself, Sakura, and the Airman would never forget.”
Life would never be the same for us, particularly, Sakura. Our evenings together were silent, and my wife often excused herself from dinner retreating to the bedroom, closing the door, and crying herself to sleep. As my enlistment came to an end, I looked forward to taking Sakura back to Los Angeles, starting anew, and having another baby. Ichika’s death reminded her mother of the carnage of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and, I believe she blamed her daughter’s death on America. Her heart became cold and empty. Our marriage evaporated.”
I returned home after work one evening to find a note waiting for me. Sakura said “goodbye to me forever”, and vanished into Japan, never to be seen or heard from again. My commanding General offered to find Sakura. I knew it was best to let her go, allow her to mourn, and live her life as she chose.”
When I was discharged and returned home to LA, I was heartbroken and lost ambition to attend college. I was severely depressed and turned to alcohol. The image of my daughter being cut to ribbons, and my blood soaked wife gathering her daughter’s body parts, became regular nightmares. I considered suicide and read books about “Hari-kari”. One evening, I placed the knife against my abdomen but the photos of my parents, and the suffering they would endure, changed my mind, at least, for the time being. Most nights I drank myself to sleep. Hearing laughing children play in our neighborhood, particularly little girls, caused my heart to ache. Although I enjoyed delicious home cooked meals prepared by my mother, I’d often eat quietly, excuse myself from the dinner table, and return to my bedroom to cry. I wanted to die.”
My father refurbished our Boyle Heights home which had been boarded up during our stay in Manzanar, and restored my boyhood bedroom to a comfortable private bedroom suitable for a grown man. My parents couldn’t console me, but my father knew it was necessary to keep me busy to alleviate my sadness, and took me on as a partner in the gardening business, hoping I would find peace amongst the trees, flowers, shrubs, and daily work. My father purchased a new light blue Ford pickup, neatly stocked it with the tools of the trade of an expert gardener, and had the doors painted, “Mori & Son”. Watching my father work was therapeutic. He was a craftsman, gentle with each plant, bush, and blade of grass. We worked six days a week from sunrise to sunset. I marveled at the tall trees, pools, and manicured grounds 
of the great estates we manicured for the wealthy. When I felt my sadness overwhelm me, I’d scurry up a tall tree during a lunch break, reaching the top, and stare into the blue sky with fluffy white clouds where I recited a prayer for my wife and daughter.”
“Do you remember the day my grandfather hired you to cut down the shade tree on his school campus, Mr. Mori?”
“My father was growing old, and mom was sickly. Although I had the GI bill and the opportunity to attend UCLA, I felt the responsibility to take over dad’s business. Dad died of lung cancer from smoking. Mom passed shortly thereafter, missing her beloved husband, and heartbroken about losing her beloved granddaughter. Mom was an only child and dreamed of having a granddaughter. One of mom’s caretakers at the convalescent home said mom died from a “broken heart.”  With my parents deceased, and my depression deepening, I decided it was time to commit suicide. I feared Hari-kari but chose to commit suicide with a lethal combination of sedatives and alcohol which I mixed in a tall glass. I heard a knock at the door, went to answer, and it was our neighbor and family friend, your grandfather. Abe excused himself for the “intrusion” but requested a “few minutes” to discuss an important job for an arborist at the school where he was principal. I did my best to present a happy face while listening to the job assignment and glancing at the “cocktail” awaiting me. A sole, magnificent oak tree, providing the only shade for the picnic table at the urban school was ordered to be cut down to make room for a new classroom. Abe asked me for an examination of the tree and a written report he would present to the school district in hopes he could save the tree for the children. I politely declined the assignment saying, “I’m too busy but I’ll recommend another arborist.” Abe was aware of my tragedy and knew of my depression. He pleaded for my assistance, insisting, “Please do it for the underprivileged little girls and boys.”  When I heard “little girls”, I decided to complete the assignment in honor of my beloved “Ichika”.
Los Angeles was a segregated city. There was a chain link fence separating Abe’s school from an upscale neighborhood. The children of this school often peered through the fence to admire the beautiful homes with manicured lawns, shrubs, and particularly the tree houses erected within some of the trees. The only minority folks in the wealthy neighborhood were Black housekeepers, Asian gardeners, and the Mexican garbage truck crew.  Abe’s students played on a sweltering, cracked, asphalt playground with a single oak tree providing shade over a splintered picnic table.
The school district denied the request to save the mighty shade tree.” 
The chain link fence separating the school from the beautiful neighborhood reminded me of my days at Manzanar, but the laughter, happiness, and joy of the children brought back memories of my daughter. It made me melancholy, and I’d cry out of sight of my crew when I was high atop the tree. I often contemplated releasing the hooks to my belt wrapped around the tree causing me to plunge to my death on the concrete below, ending my pain forever. My four man crew had been with me for years and I grew to know their families, often sharing family photos, celebrations, and happy times during our lunch breaks. I admired their work ethic which reminded me of my father and mother. I felt a responsibility to 
each of them and their families who depended upon my business for their livelihoods. My death would scar their lives forever, and I wouldn’t take on that responsibility.”
“Weren’t you frightened working so high up in the trees supported only by a belt wrapped around your waist and the tree trunk, Mr. Mori?”
“I considered myself a fortunate man to have a job with enabled me to climb high into the sky and nearly touch the doorway to heaven! I wasn’t alone up in the tree. I was befriended by a blue bird, squirrel, and a mouse, all living in the tree. They kept me company during my work, unafraid of the loud chain saw, and trusting my intentions to provide them with another home. I credit their companionship, and that of my crew, for convincing me not commit suicide. At times, I speculated the animals were my lost family, or possibly their messengers, urging me to carry on. I made certain the severed limbs of the tree were delivered to the arboretum to serve as trail curbs, mulch, or other useful items.”
“Mr. Mori, my grandfather told me he watched you from his office window respectfully dismembering the tree. He fondly spoke of your crew of four, dedicated Mexican American workers who worked together like a surgical team. You thanked my grandfather for the business, shook hands, and he never saw you again. My grandfather became embroiled in the school desegregation of the time, and running the busy school. He often wondered about you, knowing you didn’t have a successor to take over the business, and no family. Before passing, he asked me to visit “Mr. Mori” one day. So, I’ve honored his request, Mr. Mori.”
“Gabe, your grandfather always had the best intentions of his students in mind. He pointed out another tree on the school campus which long since died and wasn’t a nuisance. I thought that I might attempt to bring it back to life and provide needed shade for the students. I confirmed the tree was hopelessly dead but sturdy. Although it would never provide shade for the children, I had another “idea in mind” for the children. I phoned your grandfather with my idea.
With your grandfather’s permission, I turned my attention to the lifeless tree without leaves. My examination concluded the tree was perfect for a tree house for the children. I spent my weekends purchasing lumber, nails, roofing shingles, and I finished a structurally sound, elaborate tree house, which looked like it was torn from a page of “Architectural Digest.” My depression was replaced with happiness. I declined your grandfather’s gracious offer of a fee.”
I noticed the children from the “privileged” neighborhood on the other side of the fence watched me and our students complete the tree house. It wasn’t long before the privileged children scaled the fence and joined the students of our school in building the tree house. Although the tree house wouldn’t remain forever, lasting friendships were forged amongst children from different ethnic groups and religious backgrounds. It was beautiful to behold. I carved the initials “M+S” within the base of the tree”.
I was mindful to provide a bird house for my friend the blue bird, and bored a small “apartment” for the squirrel, and mouse, high inside the trunk of the tree. Upon completing the tree house, I purchased gallons of red, white, and blue paint, charging the students with the job of painting the tree house.”
I’d sit out of sight of the children and watch them paint the tree house. It became a red, white, and blue mosaic of America, depicting the love, struggles, and dreams for an America of the future these children desired. I retired shortly thereafter, selling the business to my crew for a bargain price. In my honor, they kept the trade name, “Mori & Son”.
I’m weary, Gabe. Fatigue is flowing over me like a wave. I can’t resist the need to close my eyes. If I do, I fear it will be the final time. I must say “Sayonara” to you before it’s too late.”  Mr. Mori shook my hand with a weak, shaking, grip.
I glanced at my watch and knew I was due back at the hospital for my surgical rounds. As I looked up from my watch and towards Mr. Mori, I knew he passed. His eyes were half open and a lovely grin suggested he was happy to have told his story, and to meet the grandson of an old neighbor, friend, and client. I checked his pulse, respiration, and confirmed his death. I summoned the caregivers to the room. It was my privilege to make the formal pronouncement of death, and execute the death certificate. Since Mr. Mori had no relatives, I told the staff that I would consult with the Coroner, the American Legion who would provide a military service at no charge, and a Japanese temple regarding his religious services.
It was a beautiful, sunny morning, memorial service with an air force color guard, including a Shinto priest. A Shinto tablet marked Mr. Mori’s grave which was placed beneath a tall, shady oak tree. Two additional Shinto tablets were placed adjacent to Mr. Mori, one for his beloved wife, Sakura, and the other for his loving daughter, Ichika. His parents were buried not far away from the memorials to their son, granddaughter, and daughter in law.
They don’t make people like Mr. Mori anymore. His kindness, generosity, and humanity in the face of tragedy and bigotry, left a positive impression upon me which I wouldn’t forget.  Before leaving the memorial service, I bowed, and said, “Sayonara” to the Mori family. I was grateful to Mr. Mori for revealing memories of my grandparents. I admired their dedication to teaching the underprivileged and choosing to live within a diverse neighborhood. In their honor, I recited the Jewish prayer for the dead, “The Mourner’s Kaddish”. The Kaddish helps keep the memory of a loved one alive.

​





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