I was six years old in 1940 – World War II was raging in Europe and the Japanese Empire was completing the planned subjugations of its Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere, but none of this had yet penetrated the tranquility of our back yard on Chevy Chase Drive in Beverly Hills.

My father had enrolled me in something called the ‘Men of the Trees’. which encouraged me to plant seeds and trees and entitled me to wear a tiny badge that featured an illustration of an evergreen tree. When wearing the badge on my cap, I imagined that I was a forest ranger, roaming among the trees and plants that comprised our backyard eco-system on make-believe woodland adventures.

Our gardener and landscaper was a fascinating middle-aged man named Jimu ‘Jimmy’ Kishimoto.  Jimmy arrived twice a week at an early hour in his battered Ford pickup truck – the tools of his trade – push lawnmower, edger, clipping shears, shovels. spades, seedlings in small cardboard boxes and seeds in linen pouches, were organized carefully on the truck’s wooden bed.

Jimmy radiated an aroma of earth and vegetation – an alluring combination for a six-year-old forest ranger. He was typically clad in worn jodhpur breeches stuffed into high rubber boots, a work-soiled, long-sleeved khaki shirt and a worn leather vest, topped-off with a battered, sweat-stained fedora hat, and of course the ubiquitous bandanna around his neck.

His language was strange – replete with r’s that sounded more like l’s to me – and vice-versa – I was fascinated by him, and dogged his footsteps, relishing each encounter with this mysterious man from far-off Japan.

Jimmy was extremely patient with me – he was meticulous and devoted to his work, but I sensed that he welcomed the opportunity to pause and pass-on bits and pieces of his vast botanical knowledge to his little tow-headed assistant. 

He communicated his consuming love for trees, plants and all living things by showing me how to plant, trim and graft new limbs on the trees in our backyard – I watched fascinated as he planted a lemon tree in an area he had carefully cultivated next to the swimming pool (it became our “Victory Garden” during World War II) and a pomegranate tree and some poinsettias next to my sister’s playhouse. He instructed me carefully on the mysterious manner in which bees pollinated the avocado tree dad had gotten as a gift from gossip columnist Luella Parsons, showing me how their busy endeavors caused the reluctant tree to finally bear fruit.

Christine Simon, who’s family had bought the house from us in 1950 recently assured me that the trees that I helped Jimmy plant still flourish and bear fruit, and the poinsettias still flower around Christmastime – a tribute to Jimmy’s botanical wizardry.

I followed him around faithfully for almost two years – and then, suddenly it was December 7th 1941 – our family listened to FDR’s ‘Day of Infamy’ speech on the Philco console radio in dad’s study – soon after that Jimmy disappeared – dad later discovered that, like so many Japanese-Americans, he and his family, who were American citizens, had been taken from their home and interned in a camp in northern California for the duration of the war. I vaguely recall dad’s attempts to intercede on his behalf to no avail – sadly, we never saw Jimmy again.

These days, as I remember, when I was writing natural and cultural history stories, monographs and essays about the lush rainforest eco-systems that begin quite near my condominium apartment in northeastern Puerto Rico, I like to think that if I have developed any skill in describing vegetation and wildlife, it was nurtured by Jimmy Kishimoto – his infinite patience with a bothersome little botanical acolyte, jump-started my lifelong interest in our planet’s flora and fauna.

Thanks Mr. Kishimoto…

Regrettably, the injustices visited upon my friend, Mr. Kishimoto and his family, so many years ago are happening again in our country. Immigrant persons of color, with no criminal records are being detained, incarcerated and in some cases, deported from our shores without recourse to our justice system. In my opinion, we must use our voices and our votes to stop this injustice being carried out against our innocent immigrant brothers and sisters.