2 Grandfathers--Understanding Came Early and Late

On a cool day in late September of 1978, my grandfather died at 90. He was a simple man with a third-grade education who walked 2 miles every day to his job as a custodian for the railroad.

We have an old family photo of me as a 3-year-old combing the eight or nine strands of hair that grandpa had. As a teen-ager, I had a running joke with him based on my grandma’s passion for bingo, which she indulged in three or four nights a week at the local parlor. Grandpa would phone and invite me over, and I’d ask him if grandma was going to be home, knowing full well she was probably at bingo.

“No, she’s down at Billy Graham’s tonight,” he would say, always delivering the joke with his high-pitched laugh.

Good ol’ Grandpa.

That’s essentially how he remained in my consciousness until well into adult life, when I gave my first serious thought to the rhythms of his life. Born in 1888, married in 1911, devastated at 41 by the Depression. The father of four children. In my mind’s eye, I pictured him at various stages of life--in good times, in bad times--not as a stick figure caricature of a “Grandpa,” but as a flesh-and-blood man of both vice and virtue.

But by the time I pieced together who Grandpa really was, he was already dead.

This remembrance is sparked by a letter from Justin Yoshida, a junior at Fountain Valley High School. Along with the letter, Justin sent a photocopy of a front-page photo in The Times from Oct. 10, showing his grandfather with U.S. Atty. Gen. Richard Thornburgh.

The letter, written Nov. 1 as an outpouring of Justin’s thoughts, explains the rest:

“This weekend, I watched my grandfather in a hospital bed being fed green liquid through an IV tube. I solemnly stared at his expressionless face for a long time. His breath came in long, deep gasps, interrupted intermittently by weak coughs. As I stood by this once powerful man, unexpected emotions ran through me. I didn’t feel deep sorrow. I felt strangely satisfied.

“I clasped his age-scarred hand firmly. He wouldn’t have felt my grip physically, even if he had been awake. My grandfather had suffered two debilitating strokes in the past week. The first he had been unaware of, or had shaken off. He was hospitalized for the second one, which had paralyzed his right side.

“I loved this man deeply. I remember him taking care of his grandchildren tenderly, even in his old age. He was always special to me, because he was the oldest person I was related to--101 years old. If I had such deep feelings for him, why did I feel so content while he wasted away at my side?

“Three weeks ago, my grandfather flew to Washington, D.C. My aunt and cousin escorted him, for he had trouble walking from place to place and was disoriented. Very recently, he had won an award at Los Angeles Nisei week for being a pioneer of the Japanese-American community. He had been supportive to his friends and family all of his life, but now it was his turn to be aided--in simple walking.

“I pondered for a long time on his benevolence, and it enraged me to think that this noble man and all others like him had never been recompensed for being betrayed and interned in prison camps by his own country during the second world war. The Japanese-Americans, a notoriously proud and honorable ethnic group, had never been apologized to, in person, for the great losses and atrocities they suffered as the result of unjustified suspicion and racism. It was detrimental to their fierce pride and deep honor.

“Now in D.C., my grandfather, Senkichi Yuge, was being televised as the attorney general of the United States of America offered a war reparations check and an apology on behalf of our country to him, and shook his hand. It was the happiest I have ever seen my grandfather, cousin or aunt. As I watched each first-generation Japanese-American accept both a check and an apology, I felt what all of my people were experiencing--fulfillment and relief, but deep sorrow for all of those who would never receive an apology or reparations (more than half of all people interned in prison camps have already died).

“Today at school, I realized why I was satisfied for my grandfather. He had waited his whole life to have his dignity restored, and it finally had been. A wave of patriotism, unity and pride for my people washed over me as I sat in U.S. history class. I went home fulfilled, only to receive very serious news.

“My grandfather died today. It was sudden, unexpected and hopefully painless for him. Perhaps I should feel pensive, morose, gloomy, but my new level of awareness enables me to have a different insight. I am happy for my grandfather. He passed away only after his high hopes had been fulfilled. His people’s honor was restored. He was content. And he passed away on All Saints Day.”

Justin and I both had memorable grandfathers. He just got to know his a lot sooner than I did.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.