This post is the first of the Toro no Akari blog series, an oral history of the Seattle Japanese Garden as told from the perspective of those who know its every inch most intimately: the gardeners. The series reveals a little-known history of stewardship and mentoring—of alighting each other’s paths as a toro lantern would—that’s continued for over sixty years.

In this interview, Jim Thomas, former head gardener, reflects on his long-term relationship with Dick Yamasaki, who constructed the garden with designer Juki Iida in the late 1950s and upheld the garden’s vision through its maintenance for over thirty years. The conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

Let’s Take a Walk

In the summer of 1980, I became the senior gardener for the parks crew at the Arboretum. The work involved a lot of lawn mowing, picking up garbage, and maintaining trails.

Within months, an economic downturn led to Seattle Parks and Recreation taking over the management of the Japanese Garden from the University of Washington. Parks could only afford one gardener. I was told, “Anytime you get a chance, you can go across the street and help out Jim Frost.”

Summer garden over the pond (Photo: Aurora Santiago)

The first time I stepped into the Japanese garden, I was in awe. I would take every opportunity I could get to come back.

There used to be a crab apple tree near Lake Washington Boulevard that someone had tried to prune into a weeping form. One day, Jim Frost and I cut about five years of growth out of it, and suddenly, amid the wild side of the garden, we had an exquisitely pruned crab apple tree.

That same day, Dick Yamasaki was scheduled to visit. He walked in, looked at the crab apple tree, and then at us.

“Very interesting,” he said, then paused.

“That’s not quite the form we want for this part of the garden.”

This is how I learned there's more to this garden than each individual plant that you should prune in a certain way. I decided I would not touch anything else until I got the okay from this man.

““You will know if a plant is pruned correctly if the shadow pattern is even under the dark spots where the sun doesn’t come through.””

— Dick Yamasaki

Jim Frost was often too busy to attend consulting meetings with Dick, and I became the beneficiary of his absence.

“Thomas, Thomas, come on, let's walk,” Dick said one day.

“Sit down here, sit on this bench. Look across there. What do you what do you see over there?”

“Oh, well, there's viburnums over there. They've been really pruned to really low forms, and it's really unique,” I answered.

“That's good. What else is there to say about it?” I shook my head, mouthing, you're the boss.

“Do you see the shadow pattern underneath?” Dick said. “Look at the shadow patterns. Because you will know if a plant is pruned correctly if the shadow pattern is even under the dark spots where the sun doesn't come through.”

So that was the beginning for me. “This man has it,” I thought. This man had the garden in his soul, and I wanted as much of that as possible.

Unfortunately, with personnel changes, I soon lost access to the garden and lessons with Dick. I spent long years in gardener purgatory—until 1989, when I got to return to the Japanese Garden as head gardener.

Breathing Life Into the Garden

One phrase I repeated throughout my head gardener tenure is, “This is not a plant museum. This is a living garden that needs to be maintained and managed.”

In the years leading up to 1980, the east side of the garden had become a specimen collection. Any plant that had any relationship with Japan was placed in that garden, whether this was appropriate or not. The area was just a dense mass of plants; there was no interest or depth to look into.

Getting approval to remove anything was a battle with bureaucracy. I had a steep learning curve conveying enough information and helping decision-makers get comfortable with accepting change. The process was always months long and excruciatingly tedious. Sometimes, three, five, or ten people from various organizations would show up to voice their objections.

““This is not a plant museum. This is a living garden that needs to be maintained and managed.” ”

— Dick Yamasaki

For a time, help from the horticulture units became available. I remember Dick’s eyes getting big hearing this news; his list of maintenance tasks stretched back decades. What was supposed to be a two-day job turned into over a week.

Parks management pulled back the crew, of course. Even so, we were beginning to bring the garden back to life—and letting it breathe. It had some interest on both sides of the path as you entered the garden. As it was meant to be.

Meeting Disruption with Grit, Care, and Humor

Organizational policy changes and budget cuts were also an unfortunate constant throughout my tenure.

Some years, Dick would come with a crew for seasonal maintenance without pay. When I spoke up, I heard disparaging remarks rather than recognition for his dedication. Racial prejudice hung in the air.

The temporary help Parks offered varied from one season to the next, especially in the second half of my fifteen years as head gardener. Often, the person had no training nor interest in gardening, let alone doing the kind of work a Japanese gardener needs to do. Eventually, even help from the horticulture units was pulled. All signs pointed to the garden falling into irreparable decay.

“There are so many different entities involved with (the garden). You'll have to decide how you will function with all of them.”

I started avoiding meetings. I cared for three and a half acres of highly maintained space that no one else was. If I got accused of hiding out, and I did, I’d say, come and walk around with me. Put on the holster and carry the tools. Let's see how much you can get done on your own. The dismissiveness I felt then stings to this day.

Before Dick retired around 1995, he pulled me aside.

“I'm leaving this garden to you. I know you'll take good care of it. But you have to find your way. There are so many different entities involved with it. You'll have to decide how you will function with all of them. For my part, I've tried to be vague and eccentric. Now you go on with your own way,” he said.

Which brings back memories of that time with a bunch of willow trees.

One willow tree still standing in the Seattle Japanese Garden (Photo: Aurora Santiago)

The trees were not only inappropriate size-wise, but they were a labor suck. You had to spend so much time on them twice a year. But, by now, you know how hard it is to get any removal approved.

So, one time Dick was in the garden, and a friend of mine from Parks invited a person with a chain. Pat, a Parks senior manager, happens to come in that day. There's this pile of brush on the ground and this stump

“Dick, tell me about this base dig of willow trees,” Pat said.
“Willow trees? What willow trees?” Dick answered.

Vague and eccentric; that's a lot of my history with that guy. Mysterious with intention. I took his parting words to heart. I went on with my own way.

The Ongoing Gift of Shadow Patterns

One feature I’m proud of adding is the ADA access bridge to the east of the Wisteria Arbor. We came close to being forced to dig up the tobiishi stepping stones and replace it with a granite slab that neither fit aesthetically nor improved the impeded water flow. I’m happy I persevered in installing a more beautiful and functional bridge instead.

“I return to the little things, like the walks.”

When I retired from my position as head gardener in 2005, I gladly accepted the offer to join the pruning crew. They had provided me with intense and wonderful fellowship for a week every fall. Then, in 2014, Pete Putnicki came aboard as head gardener, and I knew the garden was at last in good hands. Just as Dick had entrusted me, I entrusted Pete. At some point, I told him the story about Dick telling me to find my own way.

When I’m asked what kept me engaged with the garden for so long, I return to the little things, like the walks. Like when Dick had me study the shadow patterns. He could help me see things I never would have noticed. I treasured those moments and shared them—with appreciative visitors and gardeners alike.

Dick had this garden in his soul. I loved every minute of learning from him.

Jim Thomas was the head gardener at Seattle Japanese Garden from 1989 until 2005, though his involvement with maintaining the garden began as early as 1980. He continued working in the garden until 2016, his last year of annual pine pruning in November, making him the staff gardener with the longest hands-on involvement in the garden. Thomas is responsible for training dozens of gardeners using the lessons he learned from Dick Yamasaki and for sharing his experience and knowledge of the garden through his words, including the Arboretum Bulletin article titled “The New, Old Pine in the Japanese Garden” published in spring of 1994.

Read Bulletin article, ‘The New, Old Pine in the Japanese Garden,’ written by Jim Thomas

An Oral History of Seattle Japanese Garden, Story No. 1: A Lesson in Shadow Patterns